American  Dramatists  Series 


THIRST 


And  Other  One  Act  Plays  by 


EUGENE  G.  O'NEILL 


BOSTON:  THE  GORHAM  PRESS 

TORONTO:  THE  COPP  CLARK    CO.,    LIMITED 


'V  * 


Copyright.  1914,  by  Bttgen*  O.  <XN«m 
Dramatic  and  all  Other  Right!  R«Mrv«d      pj 


TUB  QORHAM  PRESS,  BOSTON,  U.  8  A, 


321 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 
7 


"The  Web" •••  47 

"Warnings"  73 

,     "Fog"  i°7 

"Recklessness"                U7 


THIRST 

A  PLAY  IN  ONE  ACT 
CHARACTERS 

A  Gentleman 

A  Dancer 

A  West  Indian  Mulatto  Sailor 


THIRST 

A  TRAGEDY  IN  ONE  ACT 

Scene— A  steamer's  life  raft  rising  and  falling 
slowly  on  the  long  ground-swell  of  a  glassy  tropic 
$ea.  The  sky  above  is  pitilessly  cl^ar»  °f  a  s*eel 
blue  color  merging  into  black  shadow  on  the  ho 
rizon's  rim.  The  sun  glares  down  from  Straight 
overhead  like  a  great  angry  eye  of  God*  The  heat 
is  terrific.  Writhing,  fantastic  heat-waves  rise  from 
the  white  deck  of  the  rajt  Here  and  there  on  the 
still  surface  of  the  sea  the  fins  of  sharks  may  be  seen 
slowly  cutting  the  surface  of  the  water  in  lazy  cir 
cles. 

Two  me*. and  a  woman, are '  on^rtejraft.  Seated  at 
one  end  is  a  West  Indian  mulatto  dressed  in  the 
blue  uniform  of  a  sailor.  Across  his  jersey  may  be 
seen  the  words  "Union  Mail  Line"  in  red  letters. 
He  has  on  rough  sailor  shoes.  His  head  is  bare. 
When  he  speaks  it  is  in  drawling  sing-song  tones  as 
if  he  were  troubled  by  some  strange  impediment  of 
speech.  He  croons  a  monotonous  negro  song  to 
himself  as  his  round  j^es _fQlJ^w^ihe.^sliarA  fins,  in 
their  everlasting-circles. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  raft  sits  a  middle-aged 
7 


8  THIRST 

white  man  in  what  was  once  an  evening  dress;  but 
sun  and  salt  water  have  reduced  it  to  the  mere 
caricature  of  such  a  garment.  His  white  shirt  is 
stained  and  rumpled;  his  collar  a  formless  pulp 
about  his  neck;  his  black  tie  a  withered  ribbon. 
Evidently  he  had  been  a  first-class  passenger.  Just 

now  he  cu*s_Jj  f£?Z3Lf!i?^.^^?'  ^^re  as  ne  s*ts 
staring  stupidly  at  the  water  with  unseeing  eyes. 
His  scanty  black  hair  is  disheveled,  revealing  a  bald 
spot  burnt  crimson  by  the  sun.  A  mustache  droops 
over  his  lips,  and  some  of  the  dye  has  run  off  it  mak 
ing  a  black  line  down  the  side  of  his  lean  face,  blist 
ered  with  sunburn,  haggard  with  hunger  and  thirst. 
From  time  to  time  he  licks  his  swollen  lips  with  his 
blackened  tongue. 

Between  the  two  men  a  young  woman  lies  with 
arms  outstretched,  face  downward  on  the  raft.  She 
is  even  a  more  bizarre  figure  than  the  man  in  even 
ing  clothes,  for  she  is  dressed  in  a  complete  short- 
skirted  dancer's  costume  of  black  velvet  covered  with 
spangles.  Her  long  blond  hair  streams  down  over 
her  bare,  unprotected  shoulders.  Her  silk  stockings 
are  baggy  and  wrinkled  and  her  dancing  shoes  swol 
len  and  misshapen.  When  she  lifts  her  head  a  dia 
mond  necklace  can  be  seen  glittering  coldly  on  the 
protruding  collar-bone^  o/  her  emaciated  shoulders. 
Continuous  weeping  ha*  made  a  blurred  smudge  of 
her  rouge  and  the  black  make-up  of  her  eyes  but 


THIRST  9 

one  can  still  see  that  she  must  have  been  very  beau 
tiful  before  hunger  and  thirst  had  transformed  her 
into  a  mocking  spectre  of  a  dancer.  She  is  sobbing 
endlessly,  hopelessly . 

In  the  eyes  of  all  three  the  light  of  a  dawning 
madness  is  shining. 

THE  DANCER — (Raising  herself  to  a  sitting 
posture  and  turning  piteously  to  the  Gentleman.) 
"My  God !  My  God !  This  silence  is  driving  me 
mad !  Why  do  you  not  speak  to  me  ?  Is  there  no 
ship  in  sight  yet?" 

THE  GENTLEMAN — (Dully.)  "No.  I  do  not 
think  so.  At  least  I  cannot  see  any."  (He  tries 
to  rise  to  his  feet  but  finds  himself  too  weak  and 
sits  down  again  with  a  groan.)  "If  I  could  only 
stand  up  I  could  tell  better.  I  cannot  see  far  from 
this  position.  I  am  so  near  the  water.  And  then 
my  eyes  are  like  two  balls  of , fire.  They  burn  and 
burn  until  they  feel  as  if  they  were  boring  into  my 
brain." 

THE  DANCER — "I  know!  I  know!  Every 
where  I  look  I  see  great  crimson  spots.  It  is  as  if 
thc JSJSLwere.  raining _drops_ol_blood.  Do  you  see 
them  too?". 

^THB  GENTLEMAN — "Yesterday  I  did — or  some 
day — I  no  longer  remember_.days.  But _  to-day 
everything  JS-red.  The  very  sea  itself  seems  chang 
ed  to  blood."  (He  licks  his  swollen,  cracked  lips 


io  THIRST 

cackle  of  madness.)  "Per 


haps  it  is  the  blood  of  all  those  who  were  drowned 
that  night  rising  to  the  surface." 

THE  DANCER  —  "Do  not  say  such  things.  You 
are  horrible.  I  do  not  care  to  listen  to  you."  (She 
turns  away  from  him  with  a  shudder.) 

THE  GENTLEMAN-—  (Sulkily.)  "Very  well.  I 
will  not  speak."  (He  covers  his  face  with  his 
hands.)  "God!  God!  How  my  eyes  ache!  How 
my  throat  burns!"  (He  sobs  heavily  —  there  is  a 
pause  —  suddenly  he  turns  to  the  Dancer  angrily.) 
"Why  did  you  ask  me  to  speak  if  you  do  not  care  to 
listen  to  me?" 

.     THE  DANCER  —  "I  did  not  ask  you  to  speak  of 
blood.     1  did  not  ask  you  to  mention  that  night." 

THE  GENTLEMAN  —  "Well,  I  will  say  no  more 
then.  You  may  talk  to  him  if  you  wish."  (He 
points  to  the  sailor  with  a  sneer.  The  negro  does 
not  hear.  He  is  crooning  to  himself  and  watching 
the  sharks.  There  is  a  long  pause.  The  raft  slow 
ly  rises  and  falls  on  the  Ion*  swells.  The  sun 
blazes  down.) 

THE  DANCER—  (Almost  shrieking.)  "Oh,  this 
silence!  I  cannot  bear  this  silence.  Talk  to  me 
about  anything  you  please  but,  for  God  sake,  talk 
to  me!  I  must  not  think!  I  must  not  think!" 

THE  GENTLEMAN  —  (Remorsefully.)  "Your 
pardon,  dear  lady!  I  am  afraid  I  spoke  harshly.  I 


THIRST  ii 

am  not  myself.  I  think  I  am  a  little  out  of  my 
head.  There  is  so  much  sun  and  so  much  sea.  Every 
thing  gets  vague  at  times.  I  am  very  weak.  We 
have  not  eaten  in  so  long  —  we  have  not  even  had  a 
drink  of  water  in  so  long."  (Then  in  tones  of 
great  anguish.)  "Oh,  jfjyc  only  had  some  water!" 
THE  DANCER  —  (Flingin^~~TierseTf~^  raft 
and  beating  it  with  clenched  fists.)  "Please  do  not 


THE  SAILOR  —  (Stopping  his  song  abruptly  and 
turning  quickly  around.)  "Water?.  Who's  got 
water?"  (His  swollen  tongue  shows  between  his 
dry  lips.) 

THE  GENTLEMAN  —  (Turning  to  the  Sailor.) 
"You  know  no  one  here  has  any  water.  You  stole 
the  last  drop  we  had  yourself."  (Irritably.)  "Why 
do  you  ask  such  questions?"  (The  Sailor  turns  his 
back  again  and  watches  the  shark  fins.  He  does  not 
answer  nor  does  he  sing  any  longer.  There  is  a 
silence,  profound  and  breathless.) 

THE  DANCER  —  (Creeping  over  to  the  Gentle- 
man  and  seizing  his  arm.)  "Do  you  nptjnotice 
how  deep  the  silenc^iiLJIll^World  seems  emptier 
than  ever.  I  air^  afraid.  Tell  me  why  jt  is." 

THE  GENTLEMAN  —  "I,  too,  notice  it.  B  t  I 
do  not  know  why  it  is." 

THE  DANCER  —  "Ah!  I  know  now.  He  is  sil 
ent.  Do  you  not  remember  he  was^  singing?  A  queer 


12  THIRST 

monotonous  song  it  was — more  of  a  dirge  than  a 
song.  I  have  heard  many  songs  in  many  languages 
in  the  places  I  have  played,  but  never  a  song  like 
that  before.  Why  did  he  stop,  do  you  think?  May 
be  something  frightened  him." 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "I  do  not  know.  But  I 
will  ask  him."  (To  the  Sailor.)  "Why  have  you 
stopped  singing?"  (The  Sailor  looks  at  him  with  a 
strange  expression  in  his  eyes.  He  does  not  answer 
but  turns  to  the  circling  fins  again  and  takes  up 
his  songt  dully,  droningly  f  as  if  from  some  place  he 
had  left  off.  The  Dancer  and  the  Gentleman  listen 
in  attitudes  of  strained  attention  for  a  long  time.) 

THE  DANCER — (Laughing  hysterically.)  "What 
a  song!  There  is  no  tune  to  it  and  I  can  under 
stand  no  words.  I  wonder  what  it  means." 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "Who  knows?  It  is  doubt 
less  some  folk  song  of  his  people  which  he  is  sing 
ing." 

THE  DANCER — "But  I  wish  to  find  out.  Sail 
or!  Will  you  tell  me  what  it  means — that  song 
you  are  singing?"  (The  negro  stares  at  her  un 
easily  for  a  moment.) 

THE  SAILOR — (Drawlingly.)  "It  is  a  song  of 
my  people." 

THE  DANCER — "Yes.  But  what  do  the  words 
mean  ?" 

THE  SAILOR—  (Pointing  to  the  shark  fins.)     "I 


THIRST  13 

am  singing  to  them.  It  is  a  charm.  I  have  been 
told  it  is  very  strong.  If  I  sing  long  enough  they 
will  not  eat  us." 

THE  DANCER—  (Terrified.)  "Eat  us?  What 
will  eat  us?" 

THE  GENTLEMAN — (Pointing  to  the  moving 
fins  in  the  still  water.)  "He  means  the  sharks. 
Those  pointed  black  things  you  see  moving  through 
the  water  are  their  fins.  Have  you  not  noticed  them 
before?" 

THE  DANCER — "Yes,  yes.  I _ha¥£_5een them. 
But  I  did  not  know  they  were  sharks."  (Sobbing.) 
^hltlSTwrfible,  all  this F~~ 

THE  GENTLEMAN — (To  the  negro,  harshly.) 
"Why  do  you  tell  her  such  things?  Do  you  not 
know  you  will  frighten  her?" 

THE  SAILOR—  (Dully.)  "She  asked  me  what 
I  was  singing." 

THE  <jENTLEMAN — (Trying  to  comfort  the 
Dancer  who  is  still  sobbing.)  "At  least  tell  her 
the  truth  about  the  sharks.  That  is  alLalchildren's 
tale  about  them  eating.. people."  (Raising  his  voice.) 
"You  know  they  never  eat  anyone.  And  I  know  it." 
(The  negro  looks  at  him  and  his  lips  contract 
grotesquely.  Perhaps  he  is  trying  to  smile.) 

THE  DANCER — (Raising  her  head  and  drying 
her  eyes.)  "YoiLare  suELofjffibat  you  say?" 

THE  GENTLEMAN — (Confused  by  the  negro's 


14  THIRST 

stare.)  "Of  course  I  am  sure.  Everyone  knows 
that  sharks  are  afraid  to  touch  a  person.  They  are 
all  cowards."  (To  the  negro.)  "You  were  just 
trying  to  frighten  the  lady,  were  you  not?"  (The 
negro  turns  away  from  them  and  stares  at  the  sea. 
He  commences  to  sing  again.) 

THE  DANCER — "I  no  longer  like  his  song.  It 
makes  me  dream  of  horrible  things.  Tell  him  to 
stop." 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "Bah!  You  are  nervous. 
Anything  is  better  than  dead  silence." 

THE  DANCER — "Yes.  Anything  is  better  than 
silence — even  a  song  like  that." 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "He  is  strange — that  sailor. 
I  do  not  know  what  to  think  of  him." 

THE  DANCER — "It  is  a  strange  song  he  sings." 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "He  does  not  seem  to  want 
to  speak  to  us." 

THE  DANCER — "I  have  noticed  that,  too.  When 
I  asked  him  about  the  song  he  did  not  want  to 
answer  at  all." 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "Yet  he  speaks  good  Eng 
lish.  It  cannot  be  that  he  does  not  understand  us." 

THE  DANCER — "When  he  does  speak  it  is  as  if 
he  had  some  impediment  in  his  throat." 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "Perhaps  he  has.  If  so,  he 
is  much  to  be  pitied  and  we  are  wrong  to  speak  of 
him  so." 


THIRST  15 

THB  DANCER — "I  do  not  pity  him.  I  am  afraid 
of  him." 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "That  is  foolish.  It  is  the 
sun  which  beats  down  so  fiercely  which  makes  you 
have  such  thoughts.  I,  also,  have  been  afraid  of 
him  at  times,  but  I  know  now  that  I  had  been  gaz 
ing  at  the  sea  too  long  and  listening  to  the  great 
silence.  Such  things  distort  your  brain." 

THE  DANCER — "Then  you  no  longer  fear  him?" 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "I  no  longer  fear  him  now 
that  I  am  quite  sane.  It  clears  my  Ttralrrto  talk  to 
you.  We  must  talk  to  each  other  !l  the  time." 

THE  DANCER — "Yes,  we  must  talk  to  each  other. 
I  do  not  dream  when  I  talk  to  you." 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "I  think  at  one  time  I  was 
going  mad.  I  dreamed  he  had  a  knife  in  his  hand 
and  looked  at  me.  But  it  was  all  madness;  I  can 
see  that  now.  He  is  only  a  poor  negro  sailor — . 
our  companion  in  misfortune.  God  <gknows  we 
are  all  in  the  same  pitiful  plight.  We  should  not 
grow  suspicious  of  one  another." 

THE  DANCER — "All  the  same,  I  am  afraid  of 
him.  There  is  something  in  his  eyes  when  he  looks 
at  me,  which  makes  me  tremble." 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "There  is  nothing  I  tell 
you.  It  is  all  your  imagination."  (There  is  a 
long  pause.) 

THE  DANCER — "Good  God!    Is  there  no  ship 


16  THIRST 

in  sight  yet?" 

THE  GENTLEMAN — (Attempting  to  rife  but 
falling  back  weakly.)  "I  can  see  none.  And  I 
cannot  stand  to  get  a  wider  view." 

THE  DANCER—  (Pointing  to  the  negro.)  "Ask 
him.  He  is  stronger  than  we  are.  He  may  be  able 


to  see  one." 


THE  GENTLEMAN — "Sailor!"  (The  negro  ceases 
his  chant  and  turns  to  him  with  expressionless  eyes.) 
"You  are  stronger  than  we  are  and  can  see  farther. 
Stand  up  and  tell  me  if  there  is  any  ship  in  sight." 

THE  SAILOR — (Rising  slowly  to  his  feet  and 
looking  at  all  points  of  the  horizon.)  "No.  There 
is  none."  (He  sits  down  again  and  croons  his 
dreary  melody.) 

THE  DANCER— (Weeping  hopelessly.)  "My 
God,  this  is  horrible.  To  wait  and  wait  for  some 
thing  that  never  comes." 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "It  is  indeed  horrible.  But 
it  is  to  be  expected." 

THE  DANCER — "Why  do  you  say  it  is  to  be  ex 
pected?  Have  you  no  hopes,  then,  of  being  res 
cued?" 

THE  GENTLEMAN — (Wearily.)  "I  h^vejipped 
for  -many  thi&gs-  in- my  life. — Always--I--hage_  hoped 
in  vain.  W? LJUjLlar  out  of  the  beaten  track  of 
steamers.  I  know  little  of  navigation,  yet  I  heard 
those  on  board  say  that  we  were  following  a  course 


THIRST  17 

but  little  used.  Why  we  did  so,  I  do  not  know.  I 
suppose  the  Captain  wished  to  make  a  quicker  pass 
age.  He  alone  knows  what  was  in  his  mind  and  he 
will  probably  never  tell." 

THE  DANCER — "No,  he  will  never  tell." 

THE  GENTLEMAN— "Why  do  you  speak  so  de 
cidedly  ?  He  might  have  been  among  those  who 
escaped  in  the  boats." 

THE  DANCER — "He  did  not  escape.  He  is 
dead!" 

THE  GENTLEMAN— "Dead  ?" 

THE  DANCER — -"Yes.  He  was  on  the  bridge. 
I  can  remember  seeing  his  face  as  he  stood  in  un 
der  a  lamp.  It  was  pale  and  drawn  like  the  face 
of  a  dead  man.  His  eyes,  too,  seemed  dead.  He 
shouted  some  orders  in  a  thin  trembling  voice.  No 
one  paid  any  attention  to  him.  And  then  he  shot 
himself.  I  saw  the  flash,  and  heard  the  report  above 
all  the  screams  of  the  drowning.  Some  one  grasp 
ed  me  by  the  arm  and  I  heard  a  hoarse  voice  shout 
ing  in  my  ear.  Then  I  fainted." 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "Poor  Captain!  It  is  evi 
dent,  then,  that  he  felt  himself  guilty — since  he 
killed  himself.  It  must  be  terrible  ta  hear  the 
screams  of  the  dying  and  know  oneself  to  blame.  I 
do  not  wonder  that  he  killed  himself.," 

THE  DANCER — "He  was  so  kind  and  good-na 
tured — the  Captain.  It  was  only  that  afternoon  on 


i8  THIRST 

the  promenade  deck  that  he  stopped  beside  my  chair. 
'I  hear  you  are  to  entertain  us  this  evening*  he 
said.  'That  will  be  delightful,  and  it  is  very  kind 
of  you.  I  had  promised  myself  the  pleasure  of  see 
ing  you  in  New  York,  but  you  have  forestalled 
me.'"  (After  a  pause.)  "How  handsome^  and 
broad-shouldered  he  was— the  Captain." 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "I  would  have  liked  to  have 
seen  his  soul." 

THE  DANCER — "You  would  have  found  it  no 
better  and  no  worse  than  the  souls  of  other  men. 
If  he  was  guilty  he  has  paid  with  his  life." 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "£fo.  He  has  avoided  pay- 
ment  by  taking^  In^nfe^JThe  dead  do  not  pay." 

THE  DANCER — "And  the  dead  cannot  answer 
when  we  speak  evil  of  them.  All  we  can  know  is 
that  he  is  dead.  Let  us  talk  of  other  things." 
(There  is  a  pause.) 

THE  GENTLEMAN — (Fumbles  in  the  inside 
pocket  of  his  dress  coat  and  pulls  out  a  black  object 
that  looks  like  a  large  card  case.  He  opens  it  and 
stares  at  it  with  perplexed  eyes.  Then,  giving  a 
hollow  laugh,  he  holds  it  over  for  the  Dancer  to 
see.)  "Oh,  the  damned  irony  of  it!" 

THE  DANCER — "What  is  it?  I  cannot  read 
very  well.  My  eyes  ache  so." 

THE  GENTLEMAN — (Still  laughing  mockingly.) 
"Bend  closer!  Bend  closer!  It  is  worth  while  un- 


THIRST  19 

demanding — the  joke  that  has  been  played  on  me." 

THE   DANCER — (Reading  slowly,  her  face  al- 
nost   touching   the   case.)      "United    States   Club 
ut  Buenos  Aires!     I  do  not  understand  what  the 
joke  is." 

THE  GENTLEMAN — (Impatiently  snatching  the 
case  from  her  hand.)  "I  will  explain  the  joke  to 
you  then.  Listen!  M-e-n-u — menu.  That  is  the 
joke.  This  is  a  souvenir  menu  of  a  banquet  given 
in  my  honor  by  this  Club."  (Reading.)  "'Mar 
tini  cocktails,  soup,  sherry,  fish,  Burgundy,  chicken, 
champagne* — and  here  we  are  dying  for  a  crust  of 
bread,  for  a  drink  of  water!"  (His  mad  laughter 
suddenly  ceases  and  in  a  frenzy  of  rage  he  shakes 
his  fist  at  the  sky  and  screams.)  "God!  God! 
What  a  joke  to  play  on  us!"  (After  this  outburst 
he  sinks  back  dejectedly^  his  trembling  hand  still 
clutching  the  menu.) 

THE  DANCER — (Sobbing.)  "This  is  too  hor 
rible.  What  have  we  done  that  we  should  suffer 
so?  It  is  as  if  one  misfortune  after  another  hap 
pened  to  make  our  agony  more  terrible.  Throw  that 
thing  away!  The  very  sight  of  it  is  a  mockery." 
(The  Gentleman  throws  the  menu  into  the  sea 
where  it  floats  t  a  black  spot  on  the  glassy  water.) 
"How  do  you  happen  to  have  that  thing  with  you? 
It  is  ghastly  for  you  to  torment  me  by  reading  it." 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "I  am  sorry  to  have  hurt 


20  THIRST 

you.  The  jest  was  so  grotesque  I  could  not  keep 
it  to  myself.  You  jsk_how  I  happen  to  have  it 
with  me?__jjgjll_tell  you.  It  gives  thejoke  an 
even  bitterer  flavor.  You  remember  when  the  crash 
came?  We  were  all  in  the  salon.  You  were  sing 
ing — a  Cockney  song  I  think?" 

THE  DANCER— "Yes.  It  is  one  I  first  sang  at 
the  Palace  in  London." 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "It  was  in  the  salon.  You 
were  singing.  You  were  very  beautiful.  I  remem 
ber  a  woman  on  my  right  saying:  'How  pretty  she 
is !  I  wonder  if  she  is  married  ?*  Strange  how  some 
idiotic  remark  like  that  will  stick  in  one's  brain 
when  all  else  is  vague  and  confused.  A  tragedy 
happens— we  are  in  the  midst  of  it — and  one  of  our 
clearest  remembrances  afterwards  is  a  remark  that 
might  have  been  overheard  in  any  subway  train." 

THE  DANCER — "It  is  so  with  me.  There  was  a 
fat,  bald-headed,  little  man.  It  was  on  deck  after 
the  crash.  Everywhere  they  were  fighting  to  get 
into  the  boats.  This  poor  little  man  stood  by  him 
self.  His  moon  face  was  convulsed  with  rage.  He 
kept  repeating  in  loud  angry  tones:  'I  shall  be  late. 
I  must  cable !  I  can  never  make  it !'  He  was  still 
bewailing  his  broken  appointment  when  a  rush  of 
the  crowd  swept  him  off  his  feet  and  into  the  sea. 
I  can  see  him  now.  He  is  the  only  person  besides 
the  Captain  I  remember  clearly." 


THIRST  21 

THE  GENTLEMAN — (Continuing  his  story  in  a 
dead  voice.)  "You  were  very  beautiful.  I  was 
looking  at  you  and  wondering  what  kind  of  a  wom 
an  you  were.  You  know  I  had  never  met  you  per 
sonally— only  seen  you  in  my  walks  around  the 
deck.  Then  came  the  crash — that  horrible  dull 
crash.  We  were  all  thrown  forward  on  the  floor 
of  the  salon;  then  screams,  oaths,  fainting  women, 
the  hollow  boom  of  a  bulkhead  giving  way.  I  vague 
ly  remember  rushing  to  my  stateroom  and  picking 
up  my  wallet.  It  must  have  been  that  menu  that  I 
took  instead.  Then  I  was  on  deck  fighting. in  the 
midst  of  the  crowd.  Somehow  I  got  into  a  boat — 
but  it  was  overloaded  and  was  swamped  immediate 
ly.  I  swam  ^o  „ ^Qther  boat.  _They  beat.ine-_oJE 
with  the  oars.  That  boat  toojwasjsw^^ 
mcnj  Jatcr.  AricTthen  the  gurgling, __chokjng  cries 
qf  the  drowning!  Something  huge  rushed  by  me 
irTthe  water  leaving  a  gleaming  trail  of  phosphor 
escence.  A  woman  near  me  with  a  life  belt  around 
her  gave  a  cry  of  agony  and  disappeared — then  I 
realized— sharks!  I  became  frenzied  witK~terror. 
I  swam.  I7Irc¥F  ffie^^ The 
ship  had  gone  down.  I  swam  and  stvam  with  but 
one  idea — to  put  all  that  honor  behind  me.  I  saw 
something  white  on  the  water  before  me.  I  clutch 
ed  it— climbed  on  it.  It  was  this  raft.  You  and  he 
were  on  it.  I  fainted.  The  whole  thing  is  a  hor- 


22  THIRST 

riblc  nightmare  in  my  brain  —  but  I  remember  clear 
ly  that  idiotic  remark  of  the  woman  in  the  salon. 
What  pitiful  creatures  we  are!" 

THE  DANCER  —  "When  the  crash  came  I  also 
rushed  to  my  stateroom.  I  took  this,  (Pointing  to 
the  diamond  necklace.)  clasped  it  round  my  neck 
and  ran  on  deck;  the  rest  I  have  told  you." 

THE  GENTLEMAN  —  "Do  you  not  remember  how 
you  came  on  this  raft  ?  It  is  strange  that  you  and 
he  should  be  on  a  raft  alone  when  so  many  died  for 
lack  of  a  place.  Were  there  ever  any^othcrs  on  the 
raft  with  you?" 

THE  DANCER  —  "No,  I  am  sure  there  were  not. 
Everything  in  my  mcmonTls  blurred.  But  i~fccl 


_  ahyays  the  only  ones  —  until  you_came. 
I  was  afraid  of  you  —  your  face  was  livid  with  fear. 
yourself." 


THE  GENTLEMAN  —  "It_was_the  sharks.  Until 
they  came  I  kept  a  half-controljover  myself.  But 
when  I  saw  them  even  my  soul  quivered  with  ter 


ror." 


THE  DANCER — (Horror-stricken,  looking  at  the 
circling  fins.)  "Sharks!  Why  they  are  all  around 
J*1J59W.".  (ffenziedly.)  "Y6iT  lied  to  me.  You 
said  tjiey  would  not  touch  us.  Oh,  I  am  afraid,  I 
am  afraid!"  (She  covers  her  face  with  her  hands.) 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "If  I  lied  to  you  it  was  be 
cause  I  wished  to  spare  you.  Be  brave!  We  are 


THIRST  23 

safe  from  them  as  long  as  we  stay  on  the  raft. 
These  things  must  be  faced."  (Then  in  tonet  of 
utter  despondency.)  "Besides,  what  does  it  matter? 
— sharks  or  no  sharks — the  end  is  the  same." 

THE  DANCER — (Taking  her  hands  away  from 
her  eyes  and  looking  dully  at  the  water.) .  "You 
are  right.  What  does  it  matter?" 

THE  GENTLEMAN— -"God!  How  still  the  sea 
is !  How  still  the  sky  is !  One  would  say  the  world 
was  dead.  I  think  the  accursed  humming  of  that 
nigger  only  makes  one  feel  the  silence  more  keenly. 
There  is  nothing — but  the  sharks — that  seems  to 
live." 

THE  DANCER — "How  the  sun  burns  into  me! 
(Piteously.) .  "My  poor  skin  that  I  was  once  so 
proud  of!" 

THE  GENTLEMAN — (Rousing  himself  with  an 
effort.)  "Come!  Let  us  not  think  about  it.  It 
is  madness  to  think  about  it  so.  How  do  you  ac 
count  for  your  being  on _the_raft  alone  jjrith  this 
nigger?  ^uliaye  not  yet  told  me." 

T5T "DANCER— "How  can  I  tell?  The  last 
thing  I  remember  was  that  harsh  voice  in  my  ear 
shouting  something — what,  I  cannot  recollect." 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "There  was  nothing  else?" 

THE  DANCER— "Nothing.  (Pause.)  Stop! 
Yes,  there  was  something  I  had  forgotten.  Ijhink 
that  someone  kissed  me.  YeaJL  am  sure  that  some- 


24  THIRST 

one  kissed  me.  But  no,  I  am  not  sure.  It  may  have 
all  been  a  dream  I  dreamed.  I  have  had  so  many 
dreams  during  these  awful  days  and  nights— so 
many^'ma3>"inad  dreamsT~~1(~Hereyes~freein  to~~glaze, 
her  lips  to  twitch.  She  murmurs  to  herself.  )_!!Mad> 
madjj  reams." 

THE  GENTLEMAN — (Reaching  over  and  shak 
ing  her  by  the  shoulder.)  "Come!  You  said  some 
one  kissed  you.  You  must  be  mistaken.  I  surely 
did  not,  and  it  could  hardly  have  been  that  sailor." 

THE  DANCER — "Y&_j  am  ^sure  someone_didL 
It  was  not  since  I  have  been  on  this  raft.  It  was  on 


the  deck  of  the  ship  just  as  I  was~?ainting." 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "Who  could  it  have  been, 
do  you  think?" 

THE  DANCER — "I  hardly  dare  to  say  what  I 
think.  I  might  be  wrong.  You  remember  the  Sec 
ond  Officer — the  young  Englishman  with  the  great 
dark  eyes  who  was  so  tall  and  handsome?  All 
the  women  loved  him.  I,  too,  I  loved  him — a  little 
bit.  He  loved  me — very  much — so  he  said.  Yes, 
I  know  he  loved  me  very  much.  I  think  it  was  he 
who  kissed  me.  I  am  almost  sure  it  was  he.1' 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "Yes,  he  must  have  been 
the  one.  That  would  explain  it  all.  He  must  have 
sent  away  the  raft  when  only  you  and  this  sailor 
were  on  it.  He  probably  did  not  let  the  others 
know  of  the  existence  of  this  raft.  Indeed' he  must 


THIRST  23 

have  loved  you  to  disregard  his  duty  so.  I  will  ask 
the  sailor  about  it.  Maybe  he  can  clear  away  our 
doubts."  (To  the  negro.)  "Sailor!  (The  negro 
stops  singing  and  looks  at  them  with  wide,  blood' 
shot  eyes.)  "Did  the  Second  Officer  order  you  to 
take  this  lady  away  from  the  ship?" 

THE  SAILOR—  (Sullenly.)     "I  do  not  know." 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "Did  he  tell  you  to  take  no 
one  elsejwith  you  but  this  lady— and  perhaps  him- 
self^aflex^ards?" 

THE  SAILOR — (Angrily*)  "T  do.. not  know." 
(He  turns  away  again  and  commences  to  sing.) 

THE  DANCER — "Do  not  speak  to  him  any  more. 
He  is  angry  at  something.  He  will  not  answer." 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "He  is  going  mad  I  think. 
However  it  seems  certain  that  it  was  the  Second 
Officer  who  kissed  you  and  saved  your  life." 

THE  DANCER — "He  was  kind  and  brave  to  me. 
He  meant  well.  Yet  I  wish  now  he  had  let  me 
die.  I  would  have  been  way  down  in  the  cold  green 
water.  I  would  have  been  sleeping,  coldly  sleeping. 
While  now  my  brain  is  scorched  with  sun-fire  and 
dream-fire.  And  I  am  going  mad.  We  are  all  go 
ing  mad.  Your  eyes  shine  with  a  wild  flame  at 
times — and  that  Sailor's  are  horrible  with  strange 
ness — and  mine  see  great  drops  of  blood  that  dance 
upon  the  sea.  Yes  we  are  all  mad."  (Pause.) 
"God!  Oh  God!  Must  this  be  the  end  of  all? 


26  THIRST 

I  was  coming  home,  home  after  years  of  struggling, 
home  to  success  and  fame  and  money.  And  I  must 
die  out  here  on  a  raft  like  a  mad  dog."  (She  weeps 
despairingly. ) 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "B^stiUJ  _You  must  not 
despair  so.  I,  too,  might  whine  a  prayer  of  protest: 
'OhGoH,  God!  After  twenty  years  of  incessant 
grind,  day  after  weary  day,  I  started  on  my  "first 
yaaitton._J[jwas  'going  home.  And  here  I  sit  dying 
by  slow  degrees,  desolate  and  forsaken.  Is  this  the 
meaning  of  all  my  years  of  labor?  Is  this  the  end, 
oh  God?'  So  I  might  wail  with  equal  justice.^ 
But  the  blind  sky  will  not  answer  your  appeals  or * 
mine.  Nor  will  the  cruel  sea  grow  merciful  for  any 
prayer  of  ours." 

THE  DANCER — "Have  you  no  hope  that  one  of 
the  ship's  boats  may  have  reached  land  and  reported 
the  disaster.  They  would  surely  send  steamers  out 
to  search  for  the  other  survivors." 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "We  have  drifted  far,  very 
far,  in  these  long  weary  days.  I  am  afraid  no 
steamer  would  find  us." 

THE  DANCER— "We  are  lost  then!"  (She  falls 
face  downward  on  the  raft.  A  great  sob  shakes 
her  thin  bare  shoulders.) 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "I  have  not  given  up  hope. 
These  seas,  I  have  heard,  are  full  of  coral  islands 
and  we  surely  ought  to  drift  near  one  of  them  soon. 


THIRST  27 

It  was  probably  an  uncharted  coral  reef  that  our 
steamer  hit.  I  heard  someone  say  'derelict'  but  I 
saw  no  sign  of  one  in  the  water.  Witn  us  it  is  only 
a  question  of  whether  we  can  hold  out  until  we 
sight  land."  (His  voice  quivers;  he  licks  his  black- 
ened  lips.  His  eyes  have  grown  very  mad  and  he 
is  shaking  spasmodically  from  head  to  foot.)  "Wa 
ter  would  save  us — just  a  little  water — even  a  few 
drops  would  be  enough."  (Intensely.)  "God,  if 
we  only  had  a  little  water!" 

THE  DANCER — "Perhaps  there  will  be  water  on 
the  island.  Look;  look  hard!  An  island  or  a  ship 
may  have  come  in  sight  while  we  were  talking." 
(There  is  a  pause.  Suddenly  she  rises  to  her  knees 
and  pointing  straight  in  front  of  her  shouts.)  "See! 
An  island!" 

THE  GENTLEMAN — (Shading  his  eyes  with  a 
trembling  hand  and  peering  wildly  around  him.) 
"I  see  nothing — nothing  but  a  red  sea  and  a  red 
sky." 

THE  DANCER — (Still  looking  at  some  point  far 
out  over  the  water,  speaks  in  disappointed  tones.) 
"It  is  gone.  Yet  I  am  quite  sure  I  saw  one.  It  was 
right  out  there  quite  near  to  us.  It  was  all  green 
and  clean  looking  with  a  clear  stream  that  ran  into 
the  sea.  I  could  hear  the  water  running  over  the 
stones.  You  do  not  believe  me.  You,  Sailor,  you 
must  have  seen  it  too,  did  you  not?"  >(The  negro 


28  THIRST 

doer  not  answer.)  "I  cannot  sec  it  any  more.  Yet 
I  must  sec  it,  Ijgj//lcelft^ 
"" THE  ~GBNTLBMAN — (Shaking  her  by  the  shoul 
der.)  "What  you  say  is  nonsense.  There  is  no  is- 
land  there  I  tell  you.  Th7rTls~h^tnTnig  but  sunlmd 
7ky  and  sea  around  us.  There  are  no  green  trees. 
There  is  no  water/'  (The  Sailor  has  stopped  sing 
ing  and  turns  and  looks  at  them.) 

TH^%  DANCER — (Angrily.)  "Do  you  mean  to 
tell  me  I  lie?  Can  I  not  believe  my  own  eyes,  then? 
I  tell  you  I  saw  it — cool  clear  water.  I  heard  it 
bubbling  over  the  stones.  But  ^m^TlieaFTiothihg, 
nothing  at  all."  (Turning  suddenly  to  the  Sailor.) 
"Why  have  y-m  stopped  singing?  Is  not  everything 
awful  enough  already  that  you  should  make  it 
worse  ?" 

THE  SAILOR — (Sticking  out  his  swollen  tongue 
and  pointing  to  it  with  a  long,  brown  finger.) 
"Water!  I  want  water!  Give  me  some  water  and 
I  will  sing." 

THE  GENTLEMAN — (Furiously.)  "We  have 
no  water,  fool!  It  is  your  fault  we  have  none. 
Why  did  you  drink  all  that  was  left  in  the  cask 
when  you  thought  we  were  asleep?  I  would  not 
give  you  any  even  if  we  had  some.  You  deserve 
to  suffer,  you  pig!  If  anyone  of  the  three  of  us  has 
any  water  it  is  you  who  have  hidden  some  out  of 
what  you  stole."  (With  a  laugh  of  mad  cunning.) 


THIRST  29 

"But  you  will  get  no  chance  to  drink  it,  I  promise 
you  that.  I  am  watching  you."  (The  negro  sul 
lenly  turns  away  from  them.) 

THE  DANCER—  (Taking  hold  of  the  Gentle- 
mans  arm  and  almost  hissing  into  his  ear.  She 
is  terribly  excited  and  he  is  still  chuckling  crazily 
to  himself.)  "Do  you  j^dljLlhink_he has  some?'1 

TH E  GENTLEMAN —  ( Chuckling. )  "He  ...  m,ay 
have.  He  may  have." 

THE  DANCER — "Why  do j^ say  that?" 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "He  has  been  acting 
strangely.  He  has  looked  as  if  he  wished  to  hide 
something.  I  was  wondering'  what  it  could  be. 
Then  suddenly  I  thought  to  myself:  'What  if  it 
should  be  some  of  the  water?'  Then  I  knew  I  had 
found  him  out.  I  will  not  let  him  get  the  best  of 
me.  I  jwill  watch  him.  He  wjHjriot  drink  whUe  I 
am  \^2itc\{mg^T^v^Wz\c^  him  as  long  as  I jcar^ 
see.*1 

THE  DANCER — "What  could  he  have  put  the 
water  in?  He  has  nothing  that  I  can  discover." 
(She  is  rapidly  falling  in  with  this  mad  fixed  idea 
of  his.) 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "Who  knows?  He  may 
have  a  flask  hidden  in  under  his  jersey.  But  he 
has  something,  that  I  am  sure  of.  Why  is  it  he  is 
so  much  stronger  than  we  are?  He  can  stand  up 
without  effort  and  we  can  scarcely  move.  Why 


30  THIRST 

is  that,  I  ask  you?" 

THE  DANCER  —  "It  is  true.  He  stood  up  and 
looked  for  a  ship  as  easily  as  if  he  had  never  known 
hunger  and  thirst.  You  are  right.  He  must  have 
something  hidden  —  food  or  water." 

THE  GENTLEMAN  —  (With  mad  eagerness  to 
prove  his  fixed  idea.)  "No,  he  has  no  food.  There 
has  never  been  any  food.  But  there  has  been  water. 
There  was  a  whole  small  cask  full  of  it  on  the  raft 
when  I  came.  On  the  second  or  third  night,  I  do 
not  remember  which,  I  awoke  and  saw  him  drain 
ing  the  cask.  When  I  reached  it,  it  was  empty." 
(Furiously  shaking  his  fist  at  the  negro's  back.) 
"Oh  you  pig!  You  rotten  pig!"  (The  negro  does 
not  seem  to  hear.) 

THE  DANCER—  "That  water  would  have  saved 
our  lives.  He  is  no  better  than  a  murderer." 

THE  GENTLEMAN  —  (With  insane  shrewdness.) 
"Listen.  I  think  he  must  have  poured  some  of  the 
water  into  his  flask.  There  was  quite  a  little  there. 
He'could  not  have  drunk  it  al 


ning  one!    That  song  of  his  —  it  was  only  a  blind. 

He  drinks  when  we  are  not  looking.  But  he  will 

drink  no  more  for  I  will  watch  him.  I  will  watch 
him!" 

THE   DANCER  —  "You   will   watch   him?     And 

what  good  will  that  do  either  of  us?  Will  we  die 

any  the  less  soon  for  your  watching?  No!    Let  us 


THIRST  31 

get  the  water  away  from  him  in  some  way.  That 
is  the  only  thing  to  do." 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "He  will  not  give  it  to  us." 

THE  DANCER — "We  will  steal  it  while  he 
sleeps." 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "I  do  not  think  he  sleeps. 
I  have  never  seen  him  sleep.  Beside  we  should 
wake  him." 

THE  DANCER—  (Violently.)  "We  will  kill  him 
then.  He  deserves  to  be  killed." 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "He  is  stronger  than  we 
are — and  he  has  a  knife.  No,  we  cannot  do  that. 
I  would  willingly  kill  him.  As  you  say,  he  deserves 
it.  But  I  cannot  even  stand,  ,1  have  no  strength 
left.  I  have  no  weapons.  He  would  laugh  at  me." 

THE  DANCER— r"There  must  be  some  way.  You 
would  think  even  the  most  heartless  savage  would 
share  at  a  time  like  this.  We  must  get  that  water. 
It  is  horrible  to  be  dying  of  thirst  with  water  so 
near.  Think!  Think!  Is  there  no  way?" 

THE  Ci  NTLEMAN — "You  might  buy  it  from 
him  with  i?inc  necklace  of  yours.  I  have  heard  his 
people  are  very  fond  of  such  things." 

THE  DANCER — "This  necklace?  It  is  worth  a 
thousand  pounds.  An  English  duke  gave  it  to  me. 
I  will  not  part  with  it.  Do  you  think  I  am  a  fool  ?" 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "Think  of  a  drink  of  wa 
ter!"  (They  both  lick  their  dry  lips  feverishly.) 


32  THIRST 

"If  we  do  not  drink  soon  we  will  die."  (Laugh 
ing  harshly.)  "You  will  take  your  necklace  to  the 
sharks  with  you?  Very  well  then,  I  will  say  no 
more.  For  my  part,  I  would  sell  my  soul  for  a 
drop  of  water." 

THE  DANCER — (Shuddering  with  horror  she 
glances  instinctively  at  the  moving  shark  fins.) 
"You  are  horrible.  I  had  almost  forgotten  those 
monsters.  It  is  not  kind  of  you  to  be  always  bring 
ing  them  back  to  my  memory." 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "It  is  well  that  you  should 
not  forget  them.  You  will  value  your  Duke's  pres 
ent  less  when  you  look  at  them."  (Impatiently 
pounding  the  deck  with  one  honey  hand.)  "Come, 
come,  we  shall  both  die  of  thirst  while  you  are 
dreaming.  Offer  it  to  him!  Offer  it  to  him!" 

THE  DANCER — (She  takes  off  the  necklace  and, 
musing  vacantly,  turns  it  over  in  her  hands  watch 
ing  it  sparkle  in  the  sun.)  "Jt  is  beautifulfJ&  it 
not  ?  I  hate  to  part  with  ik--.Jie~wasjvcr£  jmucjh  in 
love~wftfi  me — the  old  Duke.  I  think  he  would 
even  have  married  me  in  the  end.  I  did  not  like 
him.  He  was  old,  very  old.  Something  came  up — 
I  forget  what.  I  never  saw  him  again.  This  is 
the  only  gift  of  his  that  I  have  left." 

THE  GENTLEMAN — (In  a  frenzy  of  impatience 
— the  vision  of  the  water  clear  before  his  glaring 
eyes.)  "Damn  it,  why  are  you  chattering  so?  Think 


THIRST  33 

of  the  water  he  has  got.    Offer  it  to  him!    Offer  it 
to  him!" 

THE  DANCER—  "Yes,  yes,  my  throat  is  burning 
up;  my  eyes  are  on  fire.  I  must  have  the  water." 
(She  drags  herself  on  hands  and  knees  across  the 
raft  to  where  the  negro  is  sitting.  He  does  not 
notice  her  approach.  She  reaches  out  a  trembling 
hand  and  touches  him  on  the  back.  He  turns  slow 
ly  and  looks  at  hert  his  round,  animal  eyes  dull  and 
lusterless.  She  holds  the  necklace  out  in  her  right 
hand  before  his  face  and  speaks  hurriedly  in  a  husky 
voice.)  "Look,  you  have  stolen  our  water.  You 
deserve  to  betflledr^We^will  forget  all  that.  Look 


at  "tHis  necklace.    It  was  given  to  me  by  an  English 
Duke  —  a  nobleman.    It  is  worth  a  thousand  pounds 

—  five  thousand  dollars.     It  will  provide  for  you 
for  the  rest  of  your  life.    You  need  not  be  a  sailor 
any  more.    You  need  never  work  at  all  any  more. 
Do  you  understand  what  that  means  ?"  (  The  negro 
does  not  answer.     The  Dancer  hurries  on  .however, 
her   words   pouring   out    in    a   sing-song  jumble.) 
"That  water  that  you  stole-  —  well,  I  will  give  you 
this  necklace  —  they  are  all  real  diamonds,  you  know 

—  five  thousand  dollars  —  for  that  water.    You^need 
not  give  me  all  of  it.    I~am~hot  unreas^HSatle.  You 
may  keep  some  for  yourself.     I   would  not  have 
you  die.     I  want  just  enough  for  myself  and  my 
friend  —  to  keep  us  alive  until  we  reach  some  island. 


34  THIRST 

My  lips  arc  cracked  with  heat!  My  head  is  burst 
ing!  Here,  take  the  necklace.  It  is  yours."  (She 
tries  to  force  it  into  his  hand.  He  pushes  her  hand 
away  and  the  necklace  falls  to  the  deck  of  the  raft 
where  it  lies  flittering  among  the  heat  waves.) 

THE  DANCER — (Her  voice  raised  stridently.) 
"Give  me  the  water!  I  have  given  you  the  neck 
lace.  Give  me  the  water!"  (The  Gtntleman,  who 
has  been  watching  her  with  anxious  eyes t  also  cries.) 
"Yes.  Give  her  the  water!" 

THE  SAILOR — (His  voice  drawling  and  without 
expression.)  "I  have  no  water." 

THE  DANCER — "Oh,  you  are  cruel!  Why  do 
you  lie?  You  see  me  suffering  so  and  yet  you  lie 
to  me.  I  have  given  you  the  necklace.  It  is  worth 
five  thousand  dollars,  do  you  understand?  Surely 
for  five  thousand  dollars  you  will  give  me  a  drink 
of  water!" 

THE  SAILOR— "I  have  no  water,  I  tell  you." 
(He  turns  his  back  to  her.  She  crawls  over  to  the 
Gentleman  and  lies  beside  him,  sobbing  brokenly.) 

THE  GENTLEMAN — (His  face  convulsed  with 
rage,  shaking  both  fists  in  the  air.)  "The  pig!  The 
pig!  The  black  dog!" 

THE  DANCER — (Sitting  up  and  wiping  her 
eyes.)  "Well,  you  have  heard  him.  He  will  not 
give  it  to  us.  Maybe  he  only  has  a  little  and  is 
afraid  to  share  it.  What  shall  we  do  now?  What 


THIRST  35 

can  we  do?" 

THE  GENTLEMAN — (Despondently.)  "Nothing. 
He  is  stronger  than  we  are.  There  is  no  wind.  We 
will  never  reach  an  island.  We  can  die,  that  is 
all."  (He  sinks  back  and  buries  his  head  in  his 
hands.  A  great  dry  sob  shakes  his  shoulders.) 

THE  DANCER — (Her  eyes  flaming  with  a  sud 
den  resolution.)  "Ah,  who  is  the  coward  now? 
You  have  given  up  hope,  it  seems.  Well,  I  have 
not.  I  have  still  one  chance.  It  has  never  failed 
me  yet." 

THE  GENTLEMAN — (Raising  his  head  and  look 
ing  at  her  in  amazement.)  "You  are  going  to  offer 
him  more  money?" 

THE  DANCER — (With  a  strange  smile.)  "No. 
Not  that.  I  will  offer  more  than  money.  We  shall 
get  our  water."  (She  tears  a  piece  of  crumpled 
lace  off  the  front  of  her  costume  and  carefully 
wipes  her  face  with  it  as  if  she  were  using  a  powder- 
Puff.) 

THE  GENTLEMAN — (Watching  her  stupidly.) 
"I  do  not  understand." 

THE  DANCER — (She  pulls  up  her  stockings — 
tries  to  smooth  the  wrinkles  out  of  her  dress — then 
takes  her  long  hair  and  having  braided  it,  winds  it 
into  a  coil  around  her  head.  She  pinches  her  cheeks, 
already  crimson  with  sunburn.  Then  turning  co- 
quettishly  to  the  Gentleman,  she  says.)  "There! 


36  THIRST 

Do  I  not  look  better?    How  do  I  look?'** 

THE  GENTLEMAN — (Bunting  into  a  mad  guf 
faw.  )  " Youjook  terrible ! YfflULawJudroiul" 

THE  DANCER — "You^lie!  I  am  beautiful. 
Everyone  knowsjjwi  beautifuIT  You  yourself  have 
said  so.  It  is  you  whcTare  hideous.  You  are  jeal 
ous  of  me.  I  will  not  give  you  any_  water." 

THE  GENTLEMAN— "You_will L  get  no  watery 
You  are  frightful.  What  is  it  you  would  do — 
dance  for  him?"  (Mockingly.)  "Dance!  Dance 
Salome!  I  will  be  the  orchestra.  He  will  be  the 
gallery.  We  will  both  applaud  you  madly."  (He 
leans  on  one  elbow  and  watches  her,  chuckling  to 
himself. ) 

THE  DANCER — (Turning  from  him  furiously 
and  crawling  on  her  knees  over  to  the  sailor,  calls 
in  her  most  seductive  voice.)  "Sailor!  Sailor!  (He 
does  not  seem  to  hear — she  takes  his  arm  and  shakes 
it  gently — he  turns  around  and  stares  wonderingly 
at  her.)  "Listen  to  me,  Sailor.  What  is  your  name 
— your  first  name?"  (She  smiles  enticingly  at  him. 
He  does  not  answer.)  "You  will  not  tell  me  then? 
You  are  angry  at  me,  are  you  not?  I  cannot  blame 
you.  I  have  called  you  bad  names.  I  am  sorry, 
very  sorry."  (Indicating  the  Gentleman  who  has 
ceased  to  notice  them  and  is  staring  at  the  horizon 
with  blinking  eyes.)  "It  was  he  who  put  such 
ideas  into  my  head.  He  does  not  like  you.  Neither 


THIRST  37 


did  I,  but  I  sc*3W  that  you  are  the  better  of  the 
two.  I  hate  himj  He  has  said  dreadful  things 
which  I  cannot;  forgive."  (Putting  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder  she  bend  $  forward  with  her  golden  hair 
almost  in  his  lap  and  smiles  up  into  his  face.)  "I 
like  you,  Sailor.  You  are  big  and  strong.  We  are 
going  to  be  great  friends,  are  we  not  ?"  (  The  negro 
is  hardly  looking  at  her.  He  is  watching  the  sharks.) 
"Surely  you  will  not  refuse  me  a  little  sip  of  your 
water?" 

THE  SAILOR  —  "I  have  no  water." 

THE  DANCER  —  "Oh,  why  will  you  keep  up  this 
subterfuge?  Am  I  not  offering  you  price  enough?" 
(Putting  her  arm  around  his  neck  and  half  whisper 
ing  in  his  ear.)  "Do  you  not  understand?  I  will 
love  you,  Sailor!  Noblemen  and  millionaires  and 
all  degrees  of  gentleman  have  loved  me,  have  fought 
for  me.  I  have  never  loved  any  of  them  as  I  will 
love  you.  Look  in  my  eyes,  Sailor,  look  in  my  eyes  !" 
(Compelled  in  spite  of  himself  by  something  in  her 
voice,  the  negro  gazes  deep  into  her  eyes.  For  a 
second  his  nostrils  dilate  —  he  draws  in  his  breath 
with  a  hissing  sound  —  his  body  grows  tense  and  it 
seems  as  if  he  is  about  to  sweep  her  into  his  arms. 
Then  his  expression  grows  apathetic  again.  -He 
turns  to  the  sharks.) 

THE    DANCER  —  "Oh,    will    you    never    under 
stand?    Are  you  so  stupid  that  you  do  not  know 


38  THIRST 

what  I  mean?  Look!  I  am  efeing  myself  to 
you!  I  am  kneeling  before  you-^-I  v^ho  always  had 
men  kneel  to  me !  I  am  offering  my  body  to  you — 
my  body  that  men  have  called  so\  beautiful,  j  have 
promised  Jo  J^e_)tflitrr^jn^egro  sajlor-^-if  _you_ .will 
give  me  one  gratHjctonkjoLwater.  Is  _that  not  hu- 
miliation  enough  that  you  must  keep  me  waiting 
so?"  (Raising  her  voice.)  "Answer  me!  Answer 
me!  Will  you  give  me  that  water?" 

THE  SAILOR — (Without  even  turning  to  look 
at  her.)  "j[  have  np^  water.'* 

THE  DANCER — (Shaking  with  fury.)  "Great 
God,  have  I  abased  myself  for  this?  Have  I  hum 
bled  myself  before  this  black  animal  only  to  be 
spurned  like  a  wench  of  the  streets.  It  is  too  much ! 
You  lie,  you  dirty  slave!  You  have  water.  You 
have  stolen  my  share  of  the  water."  (In  a  frenzy 
she  clutches  the  sailor  about  the  throat  with  both 
hands.)  "Give  it  to  me!  Give  it  to  me!" 

THE  SAILOR — (Takes  her  hands  from  his  neck 
and  pushes  her  roughly  away.  She  falls  face  down 
ward  in  the  middle  of  the  raft.)  "Let  me  alone! 
I  have  no  water." 

THE  GENTLEMAN — (droused  from  the  stupor 
he  has  been  in.)  "What  is  it?  I  was  dreaming 
I  was  sitting  before  great  tumblers  of  ice-water. 
They  were  just  beyond  my  reach.  I  tried  and  tried 
to  get  one  of  them.  It  was  horrible.  But  what  has 


THIRST  39 

happened  here?  What  is  the  matter?"  (No  one 
answers  him.  The  negro  is  watching  the  sharks 
again.  The  Dancer  is  lying  in  a  huddled  heap, 
moaning  to  herself.  Suddenly  she  jumps  to  her 
feet.  All  her  former  weakness  seems  quite  gone. 
She  stands  swaying  a  little  with  the  roll  of  the  raft. 
Her  eyes  have  a  terrible  glare  in  them.  They  seem 
bursting  out  of  her  head.  She  mutters  incoherent' 
ly  to  herself.  The  last  string  nas~snappe<C~~She  is 
mad^) 

THE  DANCER — (Smoothing  her  dress  over  her 
hips  and  looking  before  her  as  if  in  a  mirror.) 
"Quick,  Marie  1  You  are  so  slow  to-night.  I  will 
be  late.  Did  you  not  hear  the  hell  ?  I  am  the  next 
on.  Did  he  send  any  flowers  to-night,  Marie? 
Good,  he  will  be  in  a  stage  box.  I  will  smile  at 
him,  the  poor  old  fool.  He  will marry  me  some  day: 
and  I  wiU  be^  a  Duchess.  Think  of  that  Marie — 
a  real  Duchess!  Yes,  yes  I  am  coming!  You  need 
not  hold  the  curtain. "  (She  drops  her  head  on  her 
breast  and  mutters  to  herself,  The  Qentleman  has 
been  watching  her,  at  first  in  astonishment,  fhelTin 
a  sort  of  crazy  appreciation.  When  she  stops  talk 
ing  he  claps  his  hands.) 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "Go  on!    Go  on!    It  is  as 
good  as  a  play."     (He  bursts  into  cackling  laugh" 

/«-.) 

THE  DANCER — "They  are  laughing.    It  oannot 


40  THIRST 

be  at  me.  How  hot  it  is!  How  the  footlights 
glare!  I  shall  be  glad  to  get  away  to-night.  I  am 
very  thirsty.'*  (Passing  her.  hand  across  her  eyes.) 
"There  he  is  in  the  box — the  poor,  old  duke.  I 
will  wave  to.  him."  (She  waves  her  hand  in  the 
air.)  "He  is  kind  to  me.  It  is  a  pity  he  is  so  old. 
What  song  is  it  I  am  to  sing?  Oh  yes."  (She 
sings  the  last  few  lines  of  some  music  ball  ballad 
in  a  harsh  cracked  voice.  The  negro  turns  and  looks 
at  her  wonderingly.  The  Gentleman  claps  his 
hands.)  "They  are  applauding.  I  must  dance  for 
them!"  (She  commences  to  dance  on  the  swaying 
surface  of  the  rajt,  half-stumbling  every  now  and 
then.  Her  hair  falls  down.  She  is  like  some  ghast 
ly  marionette  jerked  by  invisible  wires.  She  dances 
faster  and  faster.  Her  vrms  and  legs  fly  grotesque 
ly  around  as  if  beyond  control.)  "Oh,  how  hot  it 
is!"  (She  grasps  the  front  of  her  bodice  in  both 
hands  and  rips  it  over  her  shoulders.  It  hangs 
down  in  back.  She  is  almost  naked  to  the  waist. 
Her  breasts  are  withered  and  shrunken  by  starva 
tion.  She  kicks  first  one  foot  and  then  the  other 
frenziedly  in  the  air.)  "Oh  it  is  hot!  I  am  stifl 
ing.  Bring  me  a  drink  of  water!  I  am.  choking!" 
(She  falls  back  on  the  raft.  A  shudder.  runs_ over 
her  whole  body.  A  titflfL^1**™*.  I™*™ ljOp^>earj  on 
ner  liP*?_  Mer  gyes  glaze.  The  wttd^s.t.arjc_j£aves 
is  dead. ) 


THIRST  41 

THE  GENTLEMAN— (Laughing  insanely  and 
clapping  his  hands.)  "Bravo!  *  Bravo!  Give  us 
some  more!"  (There  is  no  answer.  A  great  still 
ness  hangs  over  everything.  The  heat  waves  rising 
from  the  raft  near  the  woman  s  body  seem  like  her 
soul  departing  into  the  great  unknown.  A  look  of 
fear  appears  on  the  Gentleman's  face.  The  negro 
wears  a  strange  expression.  One  might  say  he  look 
ed  relieved,  even  glad,  as  if  some  perplexing  prob 
lem  has  been  solved  for  him.) 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "She  does  not  answer  me. 
She  must  be  sick."  (He  crawls  over  to  her.)  "She 
has  fainted.'1  (He  puts  his  hand  on  her  left  breast 
— then  bends  and  rests  his  ear  over  her  heart.  His 
face  grows  livid  in  spite  of  the  sunburn.)  "My 
God!  She  is  dead!  Poor  girl!  Poor  Girl!"  (He 
whimpers  weakly  to  himself,  mechanically  running 
her  long  golden  hair  through  his  fingers  with  a  ca 
ressing  gesture.  He  is  startled  when  he  hears  the 
negro's  voice.) 

THE  SAiLORr-'OsJbe-^ead?" 

TH E  GENTLEMAN — ' 'Yes. She  is  dead^  poor 

girl.  Her  heart  no  longer  beats." 

^HE  SAfLGft^^ She  does  not 
suffer  now.  One  of  us  had  to  die."  (After  a 
pause. )  '"It  is  luclcyjfbr  us  she  is  dead." 

THE  GENTLEMAN — "What  do  you  mean  ?  What 
good  can  her  death  do  us?" 


THIRST 


THB  SAILOR— "We  wmjiye  now."  (Hetokes 
his  sailor's  knife  from  its  sheath  and  sharpens  it  on 
the  sole  of  his  shoe.  While  he  is  doing  this  he  sings 
— a  happy  negro  melody  that  mocks  the  great 
silence.) 

THE  GENTLEMAN — (In  hushed,  frightened 
tones.)  "I  do  not  understand." 

THE  SAILOR — (His  swollen  lips  parting  in  a 
grin  as  he  points  with_Jiis  knife  to 

drink.1' 

H  E  GENTLEM  AN^(  For  a  mftntnt — struck 
dumb  with  loathing — then  in  tones  of  anguished 
horror.)  "No!  No!  No!  Good  God,  not  that!" 
(With  a  swift  movement  he  grasps  the  Dancer's 
body  with  both  hands  and  making  a  tremendous 
effort,  pushes  it  into  the  water.  There  is  a  swift 
rush^of  waitings/ins.  The  sea  near  the  raft  is  churn- 
etTinto  foam.  The  Dancer  s  body  disappears  in  a 
swirling  eddy;  then  all  is  quiet  again.  A  black 
stain  appears  on  the  surface  of  the  water.) 

The  Sailor,  who  has  jumped  forward  to  save 
f**f  $**&  S^JI^'^T^b ?OL°/  ^slafpoMted_  rage 
and,  knife  in  hand,  springs  on  the_Gjmtiemaii  and 
drivesjhe knife  in  his  breast.  The  Gentleman  rises 
to  his  feet  with  a  shriek  of  agony.  As  he  falls 
backward  into  the  sea,  one  of  his  clutching  hands 
fastens  itself  in  the  neck  of  the  Sailor's  jersey.  The 
Sailor  tries_tg^f.orce_  the ._hand_  oway,  stumbles,  loses 


THIRST  43 

his  balance,  and  plunges  headlong  after  him.  TJiere 
is  a  great  splash.  The  waiting  fins  rush  in.  jThe 
water  isjajheji^wtiifoam.  The  Sailor's  black  head 
appears  for  a  moment,  his  features  distorted  with 
terror,  his  lips  torn  with  a  howl  of.  despair.  Then 
he  is  drawn  under. 

The  black  stain  on  the  water  widens.  The  fins 
circle  no  longer.  The  raft  floats  in  the  midst  of  a 
vast  silence.  The  sun  glares  down  like  a  great 
ye^of  God.  The  errie  heat  waves  float  up 


ward  in  the  still  air  like  the  souls  of  the  drowned. 
Onjhe  raft  a  diamond  necklace  lies  glittering  in  the 
blazing  sunshine. 


CURTAIN 


THE  WEB 

A  PLAY  IN  ONE  ACT 

CHARACTERS 


Rose  Thomas 

Steve,  a  "Cadet" 

Tim  Moran,  a  Yeggman 

A  Policeman 

Two  Plain  Clothes  Men 


THE  WEB 


A  PLAY  IN  ONE  ACT 

Scene-*— A  squalid  bedroom  on  the  top  floor  of 
a  rooming  house  on  the  lower  East  Side,  New  York. 
The  wall  paper  is  dirty  and  torn  in  places  showing 
the  plaster  beneath.  There  is  an  open  window  in 
back  looking  out  on  a  fire  escape  on  which  a  bottle 
of  milk  can  be  seen.  On  the  right  is  a  door  leading 
to  the  hallway.  On  the  left  a  wash-stand  with  a 
bowl  and  pitcher,  and  some  meager  articles  of  a 
woman's  toilet-set  scattered  on  it.  Above  the  wash- 
stand  a  cracked  mirror  hangs  from  a  nail  in  the 
wall.  In  the  middle  of  the  room  stands  a  rickety 
table  and  a  chair.  In  the  left  hand  corner  near  the 
window  is  a  bed  in  which  a  baby  is  lying  asleep.  A 
gas  jet  near  the  mirror  furnishes  the  only  light. 

Rose  Thomas,  a  dark-haired  young  woman  look 
ing  thirty  but  really  only  twenty-two,  is  discovered 
sitting  on  the  chair  smoking  a  cheap  Virginia  ciga 
rette.  An  empty  beer  bottle  and  a  dirty  glass  stand 
on  the  table  beside  her.  Her  hat,  a  gaudy,  cheap 
affair  with  a  scraggy,  imitation  plume,  is  also  on 
the  table.  Rose  is  dressed  in  the  tawdry  extreme 
of  fashion.  She  has  earrings  in  her  ears,  bracelets 

47 


48  THE  WEB 

on  both  wrists,  and  a  quantity  of  rings — none  of 
them  genuine.  Her  face  is  that  of  a  person  in  an 
advanced  stage  of  consumption — deathly  pale  with 
hollows  in  under  the  eyes,  which  are  wild  and  fever 
ish.  Her  attitude  is  one  of  the  deepest  dejection. 
When  she  glances  over  at  the  bed,  however,  her 
expression  grows  tenderly  maternal.  From  time  to 
time  she  coughs — a  harsh,  hacking  cough  that  shakes 
her  whole  body.  After  these  spells  she  raises  her 
handkerchief  to  her  lips — then  glances  at  it  fear- 
fully. 

The  time  is  in  the  early  hours  of  a  rainy  summer 
night.  The  monotonous  sound  of  the  rain  falling 
on  the  flags  of  the  court  below  is  heard 

ROSE — (Listening  to  the  rain — throws  the  ciga 
rette  wearily  on  the  table.)  "Gawd!  What  a 
night!"  (Laughing  bitterly.)  "What  a  chance  I 
got!"  (She  has  a  sudden  fit  of  coughing;  then  gets 
up  and  goes  over  to  the  bed  and  bending  down  gent 
ly  kisses  the  sleeping  child  on  the  forehead.  She 
turns  away  with  a  sob  and  murmus.)  "What  a 
life!  Poor  kid!"  (She  goes  over  to  the  mirror 
and  makes  up  her  eyes  and  cheeks.  The  effect  is 
ghastly.  Her  blackened  eyes  look  enormous  and  the 
dabs  of  rouge  on  each  cheek  serve  to  heighten  her 
aspect  of  feverish  illness.  Just  as  she  has  completed 
her  toilet  and  is  putting  on  her  hat  in  front  of  the 
mirror,  the  door  is  flung  open  and  Steve  lurches 


THE  WEB  49 

in  and  bolts  the  door  after  him.  He  has  very  evi 
dently  been  drinking.  In  appearance  he  is  a  typical 
"cadet"  flashily  dressed,  rat-eyed,  weak  of  mouth, 
undersized,  and  showing  on  his  face  the  effects  of 
drink  and  drugs.) 

RoSB: — (Hurriedly  putting  her  hat  down  on  the 
wash-stand — half  frightened.)  "Hello,  Steve." 

STEVE — (Looking  her  up  and  down  with  a 
sneer.)  "Yuh're  a  fine  lookin'  mess!"  (He  walks 
over  and  sits  down  in  the  chair.)  "Yuh  look  like 
a  dead  one.  Put  on  some  paint  and  cheer  up! 
Yuh  give  me  the  willies  standin'  there  like  a  ghost." 

ROSE — (Rushes  over  to  mirror  and  plasters  on 
more  rouge — then  turns  around.)  "Look,  Steve! 
Ain't  that  better?" 

STEVE— "Better?  Naw,  but  it'll  do."  (Seeing 
empty  beer  bottle.)  "Gimme  a  drink!" 

ROSE — "Yuh  know  there  ain't  any.  That's  the 
bottle  yuh  brought  up  last  night." 

STEVE—  (With  peevish  anger.)  "Yuh  lie!  I'll 
bet  yuh  got  some  hurried  around  here  some  place. 
Yuh're  always  holdin'  out  on  me  and  yuh  got  to 
quit  it,  see?" 

ROSE — "I  never  hold  out  on  yuh  and  yuh  know 
it.  That's  all  the  thanks  I  get."  (Angrily.)  "What'ud 
yuh  do  if  I  was  like  Bessie  with  your  friend  Jack? 
Then  yuh  might  have  some  chance  to  kick.  She's 
got  enough  salted  to  leave  him  any  time  she  wants 


50  THE  WEB 

to — and  he  knows  it  and  sticks  to  her  like  glue. 
Yuh  don't  notice  him  runnin'  after  every  doll  he 
sees  like  some  guys  I  know.  He's  afraid  of  losin* 
her — while  you  don't  care." 

STEVE — (Flattered — in  a  conciliating  tone.) 
"Aw,  shut  up!  Yuh  make  me  sick  with  dat  line  of 
bull.  Who  said  I  was  chasin'  any  dolls?"  (Then 
venomously.)  "I'm  not  so  sure  Jack  is  wise  to  Bes 
sie  holdin'  out  on  him;  but  I'll  tell  him,  and  if 
he  isn't  wise  to  it,  Bessie'll  be  in  for  a  good  beatin'." 

ROSE — "Aw,  don't  do  that!  What  'cha  got 
against  her?  She  ain't  done  nothin*  to  you,  has 
she?" 

STEVE — "Naw;  but  she  oughta  be  learned  a 
lesson  dat's  all.  She  oughta  be  on  the  level  with 
him.  Us  guys  has  got  to  stand  together.  What'ud 
we  do  if  all  youse  dolls  got  holdin'  out  on  the  side?" 

ROSE — (Dejectedly.)  "Don't  ask  me.  I  dunno. 
It's  a  bum  game  all  round."  (She  has  a  fit  of  hor 
rible  coughing.) 

STEVE — (His  nerves  shattered.)  "Dammit! 
Stop  that  barkin'.  It  goes  right  trou  me.  Git  some 
medicine  for  it,  why  don't  yuh?" 

ROSE — (Wiping  her  lips  with  her  handkerchief.) 
"I  did  but  it  ain't  no  good." 

STEVE — "Then  git  somethin'  else.  I  told  yuh 
months  ago  to  go  and  see  a  doctor.  Did  yuh?" 

ROSE — (Nervously,  after  a  pause.)     "No." 


THE  WEB  51 

STEVE — "Well  den,  yuh  can't  blame  me.  It's 
up  to  you." 

ROSE — (Speaking  eagerly  and  beseechingly,  al 
most  in  tears.)  "Listen,  Steve!  Let  me  stay  in 
to-night  and  go  to  the  Doc's.  I'm  sick."  (Point 
ing  to  breast.)  "I  got  pains  here  and  it  seems  as 
if  I  was  on  fire  inside.  Sometimes  I  git  dizzy  and 
everythin'  goes  round  and  round.  Anyway  it's 
rainin*  and  my  shoes  are  full  of  holes.  There  won't 
be  no  one  out  to-night,  and  even  if  there  was  they're 
all  afraid  of  me  on  account  of  this  cough.  Gimme 
a  couple  of  dollars  and  let  me  go  to  the  Doc's  and 
git  some  medicine.  Please,  Steve,  for  Gawd's  sake! 
I'll  make  it  up  to  yuh  when  I'm  well.  I'll  be  mak- 
in*  lots  of  coin  then  and  yuh  kin  have  it  all." 
(Goes  off  into  a  paroxysm  of  coughing.)  "I'm 
so  sick!" 

STEVE — (In  indignant  amazement.)  "A  couple 
of  beans!  What'd'yuh  think  I  am — the  mint?" 

ROSE — "But  yuh  had  lots  of  coin  this  moinin'. 
Didn't  I  give  yuh  all  I  had?" 

STEVE — (Sullenly.)  "Well,  I  ain't  got  it  now, 
see?  I  got  into  a  game  at  Tony's  place  and  they 
cleaned  me.  I  ain't  got  a  nick."  (With  sudden 
anger.)  "And  I  wouldn't  give  it  to  yuh  if  I  had 
it.  D'yuh  think  I'm  a  simp  to  be  gittin*  yuh  pro 
tection  and  keepin'  the  bulls  from  nmnin'  yuh  in 
when  all  yuh  do  is  to  stick  at  home  and  play  dead  ? 


52  THE  WEB 

If  yuh  want  any  coin  git  out  and  make  it.  That's 
all  I  got  to  say." 

ROSE — (Furiously.)  "So  that's  all  yuh  got  to 
say,  is  it?  Well,  I'll  hand  yuh  a  tip  right  here. 
I'm  gittin'  sick  of  givin*  yuh  my  roll  and  gittin* 
nothin'  but  abuse  in  retoin.  Yuh're  half  drunk 
now.  And  yuh  been  hittin'  the  pipe  too;  I  kin  tell 
by  the  way  your  eyes  look.  D'yuh  think  I'm  goin' 
to  stand  for  a  guy  that's  always  full  of  booze  and 
hop?  Not  so  yuh  could  notice  it!  There's  too 
many  others  I  kin  get." 

STEVE — (His  eyes  narrow  and  his  voice  becomes 
loud  and  threatening.)  "Can  that  chatter,  d'yuh 
hear  me?  If  yuh  ever  t'row  me  down — look  out! 
I'll  get  yuh!" 

ROSE—  (In  a  frenzy.)  "Get  me?  Wha'd  I  care? 
D'yuh  think  I'm  so  stuck  on  this  life  I  wanta  go 
on  livin'?  Kill  me!  Wha'd  I  care?" 

STEVE — (Jumps  up  from  the  table  and  raises  his 
hand  as  if  to  strike  her.  He  shouts:)  "Fur  Chris' 
sake,  shut  up!"  (The  babyt  awakened  by  the  loud 
voices,  commences  to  cry.) 

ROSE — (Her  anger  gone  in  a  flash.)  "Sssshhh! 
There,  we  woke  her  up.  Keep  still,  Steve.  I'll  go 
out,  yuh  needn't  worry.  Jest  don't  make  so  much 
noise,  that's  all."  (She  goes  over  to  the  bed  and 
ruddles  the  child.  It  soon  falls  asleep  again.  She 
to  cough  and  rising  to  her  feet  walks  away 


THE  WEB  53 

from  the  bed  keeping  her  face  turned  away  from 
the  baby.) 

STEVB — (Who  has  been  watching  her  with  a 
malignant  sneer.)  "Yuh'll  have  to  take  that  kid 
out  of  the  bed.  I  gotta  git  some  sleep." 

ROSE— ''But,  Steve,  where'll  I  put  her?  There's 
no  place  else." 

STEVE — "On  ihc  floor — any  place.  Wha'd  I  care 
where  yuh  put  it?" 

ROSE — (Supplicatingly.)  Aw  please,  Steve  1  Be 
a  good  guy!  She  won't  bother  yuh  none.  She's 
fast  asleep.  Yuh  got  three-quarters  of  the  bed  to 
lie  on.  Let  her  stay  there." 

STEVE — "Nix!  Yuh  heard  what  I  said,  didn't 
yuh?  Git  busy,  then.  Git  her  out  of  there." 

ROSE— (With  cold  fury.)     "I  won't  do  it."    , 

STEVE— "Yuh  won't,  eh?  Den  I  will."  (He 
makes  a  move  toward  the  bed.) 

ROSE — (Standing  between  him  and  the  bed  in  a 
resolute  attitude t  speaks  slowly  and  threateningly.) 
"I've  stood  about  enough  from  you.  Don't  yuh 
dare  touch  her  or  I'll—" 

STEVE — (Blusteringly,  a  bit  shaken  in  his  coward 
soul  however.)  "What'll  yuh  do?  Don't  try  and 
bluff  me.  And  now  we're  talkin'  about  it  I  wanta 
tell  yuh  that  kid  has  got  to  go.  I've  stood  fur  it 
as  long  as  I  kin  with  its  ballin'  and  whinin'.  Yuh 
gotta  git  rid  of  it,  that's  all.  Give  it  to  some  orphan 


54  THE  WEB 

asylum.  They'll  take  good  care  of  it.  I  know  what 
Tin  talkin'  about  cause  I  was  brung  up  in  one  my 
self."  (With  a  sneer.)  "What'd  you  want  with 
a  kid?"  (Rose  winces.)  "A  fine  mother  you  are 
and  dis  is  a  swell  dump  to  bring  up  a  family  in." 

ROSE — "Please,  Steve  for  the  love  of  Gawd  lem- 
me  keep  her!  She's  all  I  got  to  live  for.  If  yuh 
take  her  away  I'll  die.  I'll  kill  myself." 

STEVE — (Contemptuously.)  "Dat's  what  they 
all  say.  But  she's  got  to  go.  All  yuh  do  now  is 
fuss  over  dat  kid,  comin'  home  every  ten  minutes 
to  see  if  it's  hungry  or  somethin' !  Dat's  why  we're 
broke  all  the  time.  I've  stood  fur  it  long  enough." 

ROSE — (On  her  knees — weeping.)  "Please, 
Steve,  for  Gawd's  sake  lemme  keep  her !" 

STEVE—  (Coldly.)  "Stop  dat  blubberin'.  It 
won't  do  no  good.  I  give  yuh  a  week.  If  yi>h 
don't  git  dat  brat  outa  here  in  a  week  den  I  will." 

ROSE— "Wha'd'yuh  mean?    What'll  yuh  do?" 

STEVE — "I'll  have  yuh  pinched  and  sent  to  the 
Island.  The  kid'll  be  took  away  from  yuh  then." 

ROSE — (In  anguish.)  "Yuh're  jest  tryin'  to 
scare  me,  ain't  yuh,  Steve?  They  wouldn't  do 
that,  would  they?" 

STEVE — "Yuh'll  soon  know  whether  dey  would 


or  not." 


ROSE — "But    yuh    wouldn't    have    me    pinched, 
would  yuh,  Steve?    Yuh  wouldn't  do  me  dirt  like 


THE  WEB  53 

that?" 

STBVB — "I  wouldn't,  wouldn't  I  ?  Yuh  jest  wait 
and  seel11 

ROSE — "Aw,  Steve,  I  always  been  good  to  you." 

STEVE — "Git  dat  kid  outa  here  or  I'll  put  yuh  in 
in  the  cooler  as  sure  as  hell !" 

ROSE — (Maddened,  rushing  at  him  with  out 
stretched  hands.)  "Yuh  dirty  dog!"  (There  if 
a  struggle  during  which  the  table  is  overturned. 
Finally  Steve  frees  himself  and  hits  her  in  the  face 
with  his  fist,  knocking  her  down.  At  the  same  in 
stant  the  door  from  the  hallway  is  forced  open  and 
Tim  Moran  pushes  his  way  in.  He  is  short  and 
thick  set,  with  a  bullet  head,  close-cropped  black 
hair,  a  bull  neck,  and  small  blue  eyes  set  close  to 
gether.  Although  distinctly  a  criminal  type  his  ^ 
face  is  in  part  redeemed  by  its  look  of  manliness.^  . 
He  is  dressed  in  dark  ill-fitting  clothes,  and  has 
an  automatic  revolver  in  his  hand  which  he  keep* 
pointed  at  Steve.) 

TIM — (Pointing  to  the  door,  speaks  to  Steve 
with  cold  contempt.)  "Git  outa  here,  yuh  lousy 
skunk,  and  stay  out!"  (As  Steve's  hand  goes  to  his 
hip.)  "Take  yer  hand  away  from  that  gat  or  I'll  fill 
yuh  full  of  holes."  (Steve  is  cowed  and  obeys.) 
"Now  git  out  and  don't  come  back.  If  yuh  bother 
this  goil  again  I'll  fix  yuh  and  fix  yuh  right.  D'yuh 
get  me?" 


56  THE  WEB 

STEVE — (Snarling,  and  slinking  toward  //cor.) 
"Yuh  think  yuh're  some  smart,  dontcha,  buttin'  in 
dis  way  on  a  guy  ?  It  ain't  none  of  your  business. 
She's  my  goil"  . 

TIM — "D'yuh  think  I'm  goin'  to  stand  by  and 
let  yuh  beat  her  up  jest  cause  she  wants  to  keep  her 
kid?  D'yuh  think  I'm  as  low,  as  you  are,  yuh  dirty 
mut?  Git  outa  here  before  I  croak  yuh/ 

STEVE — (Standing  in  the  doorway  and  looking 
back.)  "Yuh  got  the  drop  on  me  now;  but  I'll 
get  yuh,  yuh  wait  and  see!"  (To  Rose.)  "And 
you  too."  (He  goes  out  and  can  be  heard  descend* 
ing  the  stairs.  Rose  hurries  over  to  the. door  and 
tries  to  lock  it,  but  the  lock  is  shattered,  so  she  puts 
the  chair  against  it  to  keep  it  shut.  She  then  goes 
over  to  the  baby,  who  has  been  whimpering  un 
noticed  during  the  quarrel,  and  soothes  her  to  sleep 
again.  Tim,  looking  embarrassed,  puts  the  revolver 
back  in  his  pocket  and  picking  up  the  table  sets  it 
to  rights  again  and  sits  on  the  edge  of  it.  Rose 
looks  up  at  him  from  the  bed,  half  bewildered  at 
seeing  him  still  there.  Then  she  breaks  into  con 
vulsive  sobbing.) 

TIM — (Making  a  clumsy  attempt  at  consolation.) 
"There,  there,  Kid,  cut  the  cryin'.  He  won't  bother 
yuh  no  more.  I  know  his  kind.  He's  got  a  streak 
•of  yellow  a  yard  wide,  and  beatin*  up  women  is  all 
he's  game  for.  But  he  won't  hurt  you  no  more — 


THE  WEB  57 

not  if  I  know  it."  ,i 

ROSE-— "Yuh  don't  know  him.  When  he's  full 
of  booze  and  hop  he's  liable  to  do  anythin'.  I  don't 
care  what  he  does  to  me.  I  might  as  well  be  dead 
anyway.  But  there's  the  kid.  I  got  to  look  after 
her.  And"  (Looking  at  him  gratefully.)  "I  don't 
want  you  to  git  in  no  mix-ups  on  account  of  me.  I 
ain't  worth  it." 

TIM — (Quickly.)  "Nix  on  that  stuff  about  your 
not  bein'  worth  it  1"  . 

ROSE — (Smiling.)  "Thanks.  And  I'm  mighty 
glad  yuh  came  in  when  yuh  did.  Gawd  knows 
what  he'd 'a  done  to  the  kid  and  me  not  able  to 
stop  him." 

TIM — "Don't  yuh  worry  about  my  gettin'  into 
no  mix-ups.  I  c'n  take  care  of  myself." 

ROSE — "How  did  yuh  happen  to  blow  in  when 
yuh  did  ?  There  usually  ain't  no  one  around  in  this 
dump  at  this  time  of  the  night." 

TIM — "I  got  the  room  next  to  yuh.  I  heard 
every  word  the  both  of  yuh  said — tonight  and  every 
other  night  since  I  come  here  a  week  ago.  I  know 
the  way  he's  treated  yuh.  I'd 'a  butted  in  sooner 
only  I  didn't  want  to  mix  in  other  peoples  business. 
But  tonight  when  he  started  in  about  the  kid  there 
I  couldn't  stand  fur  it  no  longer.  I  was  jest  wantin* 
to  hand  him  a  call  and  I  let  him  have  it.  Why 
d'yuh  stand  fur  him  anyway?  Why  don't  yuh  take 


58  THE  WEB 

the  kid  and  beat  it  away  from  him?'1 

ROSE — (Despondently.)  "It's  easy  to  say: 
'Why  don't  I  beat  it?'  I  can't." 

TIM— "Wha'd'yuh  mean?    Why  can't  yuh?" 

ROSE — "I  never  have  enough  coin  to  make  a  good 
break  and  git  out  of  town.  He  takes  it  all  away 
from  me.  And  if  I  went  to  some  other  part  of  this 
burg  he'd  find  me  and  kill  me.  Even  if  he  didn't 
kill  me  he'd  have  me  pinched  and  where'ud  the  kid 
be  then?"  (Grimly.)  "Oh,  he's  got  me  where  he 
wants  me  all  right,  all  right." 

TIM — "I  don't  get  yuh?  How  could  he  have 
yuh  pinched  if  yuh  ain't  done  nothin'  ?"  . 

ROSE — "Oh,  he's  got  a  drag  somewhere.  He 
squares  it  with  the  cops  so  they  don't  hold  me  up 
for  walkin'  the  streets.  Yuh  ought  to  be  wise  enough 
to  know  all  of  his  kind  stand  in.  If  he  tipped  them 
off  to  do  it  they'd  pinch  me  before  I'd  gone  a  block. 
Then  it'ud  be  the  Island  fur  mine." 

TIM — "Then  why  don't  yuh  cut  this  life  and  be 
on  the  level?  Why  don't  yuh  git  a  job  some  place? 
He  couldn't  touch  yuh  then." 

ROSE— (Scornfully.)  "Oh,  couldn't  he?  D'yiih 
suppose  they'd  keep  me  any  place  if  they  knew  what 
I  was?  And  d'yuh  suppose  he  wouldn't  tell  them 
or  have  some  one  else  tell  them?  Yuh  don't  know 
the  game  I'm  up  against."  (Bitterly.)  "I've  tried 
that  job  thing.  I've  looked  fur  decent  work  and 


THE  WEB  59 

I've  starved  at  it.  A  year  after  I  first  hit  this  town 
1  quit  and  tried  to  be  on  the  level  I  got  a  job 
at  housework — workin'  twelve  hours  a  day  for 
twenty-five  dollars  a  month.  And  I  worked  like  a 
dog,  too,  and  never  left  the  house  I  was  so  scared  of 
seein'  some  one  who  knew  me.  But  what  was  the 
use?  One  night  they  have  a  guy  to  dinner  who's 
seen  me  some  place  when  I  was  on  the  town.  He 
tells  the  lady — his  duty  he  said  it  was — and  she 
fires  me  right  off  the  reel.  I  tried  the  same  thing  a 
lot  of  times.  But  there  was  always  some  one  who'd 
drag  me  back.  And  then  I  quit  tryin'.  There 
didn't  seemi  to  be  no  use.  They — all  the  good  peo 
ple — they  got  me  where  I  am  and  they're  goin'  to 
keep  me  there.  Reform  ?  Take  it  from  me  it  can't 
be  done.  They  won't  let  yuh  do  it,  and  that's 
Gawd's  truth." 

TIM — "Give  it  another  trial  any  way.  Yuh 
never  know  your  luck.  Yuh  might  be  able  to  stick 
this  time." 

ROSE—  (Wearily.)  "Talk  is  cheap.  Yuh  don't 
know  what  yuh're  talkin'  about.  What  job  c'n  I 
git?  What  am  I  fit  fur?  Housework  is  the  only 
thing  I  know  about  and  I  don't  know  much  about 
that.  Where  else  could  I  make  enough  to  live  on? 
That's  the  trouble  with  all  us  girl*.  Most  all  of  us 
ud"  like  to  come  back  but  we  jest  can't  and  that's 
all  there's  to  it.  We  can't  work  out  of  this  life 


6a  THE  WEB 

because  we  don't  know  how  to  work.  We  was 
never  taught  how."  (She  shakes  with  a  horrible 
fit  of  coughing,  wipes  her  lips,  qnd  smiles  pitifully.) 
"Who  d'yuh  think  would  take  a  chance  on  hiring 
me  the  way  I  look  and  with  this  cough?  Besides, 
there's  the  kid."  (Sarcastically.)  "Yuh  may  not 
know  it  but  people  ain't  strong  for  hirin'  girls  with 
babies — especially  when  the  girls  ain't  married." 

TIM — "But  yuh  could  send  the  kid  away  some 
place." 

ROSE— (FiVmr/y.)  "No.  She's  all  I  got.  I 
won't  give  her  up."  (She  coughs  again.) 

TIM — (Kindly.)  "That's  a  bad  cough  yuh  got, 
Kid.  I  heard  yuh  tellin'  him  tonight  yuh  hadn't 
seen  a  doctor."  (Putting  hand  in  his  pocket.)  "I'll 
stake  yuh  and  yuh  c'n  run  around  and  see  one  now." 

ROSE — "Thanks  jest  the  same  but  it  ain't  no  use. 
I  lied  to  Steve.  I  went  to  a  doc  about  a  month  ago. 
He  told  me  I  had  the  'con'  and  had  it  bad."  (With 
grim  humor.)  "He  said  the  only  hope  fur  me  was 
to  git  out  in  the  country,  sleep  in  the  open  air,  and 
eat  a  lot  of  good  food.  He  might  jest  as  well  'uv 
told  me  to  go  to  Heaven  and  I  told  him  so.  Then 
he  said  I  could  go  out  to  some  dump  where  yuh 
don't  have  to  pay  nothin',  but  he  said  I'd  have  to 
leave  the  kid  behind.  I  told  him  I'd  rather  die  than 
do  that,  and  he  said  I'd  have  to  be  careful  or  the 
kid  'ud  catch  it  from  me.  And  I  have  been  care- 


THE  WEB  61 

ful."  (She  sobs.)  "I  don't  even  kiss  her  <*i  the 
mouth  no  more." 

TIM— "Yuh  sure  are  up  against  it,  Kid."  (He 
appears  deeply  moved.)  "Gee,  I  thought  I  was  in 
bad,  but  yuh  got  me  skinned  to  death." 

ROSE — (Interested.)  "You  in  bad?  Yuh  don't 
look  it." 

TIM — "Listen!  Yuh  talk  about  tryin*  to  be  good 
and  not  bein'  able  to — Well,  I  been  up  against  the 
same  thing.  When  I  was  a  kid  I  was  sent  to  the 
Reform  school  fur  stealin* ;  and  it  wasn't  my  fault. 
I  was  mixed  up  with  a  gang  older  than  me  and 
wasn't  wise  to  what  I  was  doin'.  They  made  me 
the  goat;  and  in  the  Reform  school  they  made  a 
crook  outa  me.  When  I  come  out  I  tried  to  be 
straight  and  hold  down  a  job,  but  as  soon  as  any 
one  got  wise  I'd  been  in  a  Reform  school  they  can 
ned  me  same  as  they  did  you.  Then  I  stole  again 
— to  keep  from  starvin.'  They  got  me  and  this 
time  I  went  to  the  coop  fur  five  years.  Then  I 
give  up.  I  seen  it  was  no  use.  When  I  got  out 
again  I  got  in  with  a  gang  of  yeggmen  and  learned 
how  to  be  a  yegg — and  I've  been  one  ever  since.  I've 
spent  most  of  my  life  in  jail  but  I'm  free  now." 

ROSE — "What  are  yuh  goin'  to  do?" 

TIM — (Fiercely.)  "What  am  I  goin'  to  do? 
They  made  a  yegg  outa  me!  Let  'em  look  out!" 

ROSE— "When  did  yuh  get  out?" 


62  THE  WEB 

TIM—  ( Suspiciously. )  "What's  it  to  you  ?"  ( Then 
suddenly.)  "Nix,  I  didn't  mean  that  Yuh're  a 
good  kid  and  maybe  yuh-c'n  help  me." 

ROSE— "I'd  sure  like  to." 

TIM-— "Then  listen!"  (Looting  at  her  fixedly.) 
"Yuh  swear  yuh  won't  squeal  on  me?" 

ROSE — "I  won't,  so  help  me  Gawd!" 

TIM— "Well,  I'm  Tim  Moran.  I  jest  broke  out 
two  weeks  ago." 

ROSE — (Staring  at  him  with  a  fascinated  won- 
der.)  "You!  Tim  Moran!  The  guy  that  robbed 
that  bank  a  week  ago!  The  guy  they're  all  lookin' 
fur!" 

TIM— "Sssshhh!  Yuh  never  c'n  tell  who's  got 
an  ear  glued  to  the  wall  in  a  dump  like  this." 

ROSE — (Lowering  her  voice.)  "I  read  about 
yuh  in  the  papers."  (She  looks  at  him  is  if  she 
were  half  afraid.) 

TIM — "Yuh're  not  afraid  of  me,  are  yuh?  I 
ain't  the  kind  of  crook  Steve  is,  yuh  know." 

ROSE—  (Calmly.)  "No,  I  ain't  afraid  of  yuh, 
Tim;  but  I'm  afraid  they  may  find  yuh  here  and 
take  yuh  away  again."  (Anxiously.)  "D'yuh 
think  Steve  knew  yuh?  He'd  squeal  sure  if  he  did 
— to  git  the  reward." 

TIM — "No,  I  could  tell  by  his  eyes  he  didn't 
know  me." 

ROSE — "How  long  have  yuh  been  here?" 


THE  WEB  63 

TIM — "A  week— ever  since  I  cracked  that  safe. 
I  wanted  to  give  the  noise  time  to  blow  over.  I 
ain't  left  that  room  except  when  I  had  to  git  a  bite 
to  eat,  and  then  I  got  enough  fur  a  couple  of  days. 
But  when  I  come  in  tonight  I  seen  a  guy  on  the 
corner  give  me  a  long  look.  He  looked  bad  to  me 
and  I  wanta  git  out  of  here  before  they  git  wise.'* 

ROSE — "Yuh  think  he  was  a  cop?" 

TIM — "Yes,  I  got  a  hunch.     He  looked  bad  to 


me." 


ROSE — (Wonder  in  gly.)  "And  yuh  come  in  here 
tonight  knowin'  he  was  liable  to  spot  yuh!  Yuh 
took  that  chance  fur  me  when  yuh  didn't  even  know 
me!"  (Impulsively  going  over  to  him  and  taking 
his  hand  which  he  tries  to  hold  back.)  "Gee,  yuh're 
a  regular  guy,  all  right." 

TIM—  (In  great  confusion.)  "Aw,  that's  noth- 
in'.  Any  one  would'a  done  it." 

ROSE — "No  one  would'a  done  it  in  your  place." 
(A  slight  noise  is  heard  from  the  hallway.  Rose 
looks  around  startled  and  speaks  hurriedly  almost 
in  a  whisper.)  "Supposin*  that  guy  was  a  cop? 
Supposin*  he  had  a  hunch  who  you  was?  How're 
yuh  goin'  to  make  a  getaway?  Can't  I  help  yuh 
outa  this?  Can't  I  do  somethin'  fur  yuh?" 

TIM — (Points  to  window.)  "That's  a  fire  escape, 
ain't  it?" 

RosE--"Yes." 


64  THE  WEB 

TIM—" Where  does  it  lead  to?" 

ROSE — "Down  to  the  yard  and  up  to  the  roof." 

TIM— "To  hell  with  the  yard.  I'll  try  the  roofs 
if  it  comes  to  a  showdown.  I'll  stick  in  here  with 
you  so's  if  they  come  I  c'n  make  a  quick  getaway. 
Yuh  tell  'em  yuh  dont  know  anything  about  me, 
see  ?  Give  'em  a  bum  steer  if  you  kin.  Try  and  hold 
'em  so's  1  c'n  get  a  good  start." 

ROSE — (Resolutely.)  "I'll  hold  'em  as  long  as 
I  c'n,  don't  worry.  I'll  tell  'em  I  seen  yuh  goin* 
down  stairs  an  hour  ago." 

TIM— -"Good  Kid!"  (They  are  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  room  with  their  backs  to  the  window. 
Steve's  face  appears  peering  around  the  edge  of  the 
window-frame.  He  is  crouched  on  the  fire-escape 
outside.  His  eyes  glare  with  hatred  as  he  watches 
the  two  persons  in  the  roow.  Rose  starts  to  cought 
is  frightened  by  the  noise  she  makes,  and  holds  her 
hankerchief  over  her  mouth  to  stifle  the  sound.) 

TIM— "Ssssshhh!  Poor  Kid!"  (He  turns  to 
her  and  speaks  rapidly  in  low  tones.)  "Here,  Kid." 
(He  takes  a  large  roll  of  money  out  of  his  pocket 
and  forces  it  into  her  hand — as  she  starts  to  remon 
strate.)  "Shut  up!  I  ain't  got  time  to  listen  to 
your  beefin'.  Take  it.  It  ain't  much  but  it's  all  I 
got  with  me.  I  don't  need  it.  There's  plenty  more 
waitin'  fur  me  outside.  This'll  be  enough  to  git 
you  and  the  kid  out  of  town  away  from  that  dirty 


THE  WEB  65 

coward."  (Steve's  face  is  convulsed  with  fury.) 
"Go  some  place  out  in  the  mountains  and  git  rid  of 
that  cough." 

RoSB-^-(Sobbing.)  "I  can't  take  it.  Yuh  been 
too  good  to  me  already.  Yuh  don't  know  how  rot 
ten  I  am." 

TIM — (Suddenly  taking  her  in  his  arms  and  kiss 
ing  her  roughly.)  "That's  how  rotten  I  think  yuh 
are.  Yuh're  the  whitest  kid  I've  ever  met,  see?" 
(They  look  into  each  other's  eyes.  All  the  hard 
ness  of  Rose's  expression  has  vanished.  Her  face  is 
softt  transfigured  by  a  new  emotion.  Steve  moves 
his  hand  into  the  room.  He  holds  a  revolver  which 
he  tries  to  aim  at  Tim  but  he  is  afraid  to  fire.) 

ROSE — (Throwing  her  arms  around  his  neck.) 
"Tim,  Tim,  yuh  been  too  good  to  me." 

TIM — (Kissing  her  again.)  "Lemme  know 
where  yuh  are  and  when  it's  safe  I'll  come  to  yuh." 
(Releases  her  and  takes  a  small  folded  paper  from 
pocket.)  "This'll  find  me."  (She  takes  it,  her 
eyes  full  of  happy  tears.)  "Maybe  after  a  time  we 
c'n  start  over  again — together!"  (A  sound  like  the 
creaking  of  a  floor  board  is  heard  from  the  hall 
way.)  "What's  that?"  (They  both  stand  looking 
fixedly  at  the  door.  Steve  noiselessly  disappears 
from  the  window.)  "Gee,  Kid,  I  got  a  feelin*  in 
my  bones  they're  after  me.  It's  only  a  hunch  but 
it's  never  gone  wrong  yet."  (He  pulls  a  cap  out 


66  THE  WEB 

of  his  pocket  and  puts  it  on.)    "I'm  goin'  to  blow." 

ROSE— (Goes  over  to  the  door  and  listens.) 
"Sounds  as  if  somebody  was  sneakin'  up  the  stairs." 
(She  tiptoes  quickly  over  to  him  and  kisses  him.) 
"Go,  go  while  yuh  got  a  chance.  Don't  let  'em 
git  yuh!  I  love  yuh,  Tim." 

TIM— "Good-bye,  Kid.  I'll  come  as  soon  as  I 
c'n."  (He  kisses  her  again  and  goes  quickly  to 
the  window.  Steve  stretches  his  hand  around  the 
side  of  the  window  and  fires,  the  muzzle  of  the  gun 
almost  on  Tim's  chest.  There  is  a  loud  report  and 
a  little  smoke.  Tim  staggers  back  and  falls  on  the 
floor.  Steve  throws  the  gun  into  the  room,  then 
quietly  pulls  down  the  window  and  disappears.  The 
child  in  the  bed  wakes  up  and  cries  feebly.) 

ROSE — (Rushes  to  Tim  and  kneels  beside  him, 
holding  his  head  on  her  breast.)  "Tim!  Tim! 
Speak  to  me,  Tim!"  (She  kisses  him  frantically.) 

TIM — (His  eyes  glazing.)   "Good  Kid — moun 
tains — git  rid  of  that  cough." 
(He  dies.) 

ROSE — (Letting  his  head  fall  back  on  the  floor 
sinks  to  a  sitting  position  beside  him.  The  money 
is  still  clutched  in  her  right  hand.  She  stares  straight 
before  her  and  repeats  in  tones  of  horrible  monot 
ony.)  "Dead.  Oh  Gawd,  Gawd,  Gawd!"  (The 
fot/nd  of  people  running  up  the  stairs  in  the  hall 
h  heard.  A  voice  shouts:  "Must  be  in  here"  The 


THE  WEB  67 

door  is  pushed  open  and  three  men  enter.  One 
is  a  policeman  in  uniform  and  the  other  two  are 
evidently  plain  clothes  men.  The  landlady  and 
several  roomers  stand  in  the  doorway  looking  in 
with  frightened  faces.) 

THE  POLICEMAN — (Goes  to  Rose  and,  taking 
her  arm,  hauls  her  to  her  feet.)  "Come,  get  up 
outa  that!"  (The  two  plain  clothes  men  take  one 
look  at  the  dead  man  and  both  exclaim  together:) 
"Tim  Moran!" 

FIRST  PLAIN  CLOTHES  MAN — "I  told  yuh  it 
was  him  I  seen  comin'  in  here  tonight.  I  never 
forget  a  face." 

SECOND  PLAIN  CLOTHES  MAN — (Picking  re 
volver  off  the  floor  and  examining  it.)  "I  didn't 
think  he'd  be  fool  enough  to  stick  around  here." 
(Turning  suddenly  to  Rose.)  "What  did  yuh  croak 
him  for?"  (Ironically.)  "A  little  love  spat,  eh?" 
(Sees  the  roll  of  money  in  her  hand  and  grabs  her 
quickly  by  the  wrist.)  "Pipe  the  roll!  Little  sis 
ter  here  attends  to  business,  all  right.  Gave  him  a 
frisk  before  we  had  a  chance  to  get  here."  (To 
Rose  in  loud,  rough  tones.}  "Why  did  yuh  kill 
him?  It  was  for  this  coin,  wasn't  it?"  (During 
the  detective's  remarks  Rose  gradually  realizes  the 
position  she  is  in.  Her  expression  becomes  one  of 
amazed  pain  as  she  sees  they  think  she  is  guilty  of 
the  murder.  She  speaks  brokenly,  trying  to  hold 


68  THE  WEB 

herself  in  control.) 

ROSE — "Honest  to  Gawd,  I  didn't  do  it.  He  gave 
me  this  money.  Some  one  shot  him  from  the  win 
dow."  ( Then  quite  simply  as  if  that  explained  'it 
all  away.)  "Why,  I  loved  him." 

SECOND  PLAIN  CLOTHES  MAN — "Stop  that 
noise!  Wha'd'yuh  take  us  for — boobs?  The  win 
dow  ain't  even  open  and  the  glass  ain't  broken.  He 
gave  yuh  the  money,  eh?  And  then  shot  himself,  I 
suppose?  Aw  say,  Kid,  wha'd'yuh  take  us  for?" 

ROSE — (Losing  all  control,  frenziedly  breaks 
from  the  Policeman's  grasp  and  throws  herself  be 
side  body.)  "Tim!  Tim!  For  the  love  ot  Gawd 
speak  to  them.  Tell  'em  I  didn't  do  it,  Tim!  Tell 
'em  yuh  gave  that  money  to  me.  Yuh  know  what 
yuh  said — 'Take  the  kid  into  the  mountains  and  git 
rid  of  that  cough.'  Tell  'em  yuh  said  that,  Tim! 
Speak  to  'em!  Tell  'em  I  loved  yuh,  Tim — that  I 
wanted  to  help  yuh  git  away.  Tell  'em  yuh  kissed 
me.  They  think  I  shot  yuh.  They  don't  know  I 
loved  yuh.  For  the  love  of  Gawd  speak  to  *em." 
(Weeping  and  sobbing  bitterly.)  "Oh  Gawd,  why 
don't  yuh  speak,  why  don't  yuh  speak?" 

FIRST  PLAIN  CLOTHES  MAN — (Sneeringly.) 
"That's  good  stuff  but  it  won't  get  yuh  anything." 
(Turning  to  his  two  companions.)  "Looks  to  me 
as  if  this  doll  was  full  of  coke  or  something.  You 
two  better  take  her  to  the  station  and  make  a  report. 


THE  WEB  69 

I'll  stay  here  and  keep  cases  on  the  room.    I'm  sick 
of  listenin*  to  that  sob  stuff." 

ROSE — (The  policeman  taps  her  on  the  shoulder 
and  she  rises  to  her  feet  with  a  spring,  wildly  pro 
testing.)  "But  I  tell  yuh  I  didn't  do  it!  It  was 
from  the  window.  Can't  yuh  believe  me?  I  swear 
I — "  (She  stops  appalled  by  the  unbelieving  sneers 
of  the  policemen,  by  the  white  faces  in  the  doorway 
gazing  at  her  with  fascinated  horror.  She  reads  her 
own  guilt  in  every  eye.  She  realizes  the  futility  of 
all  protest,  the  maddening  hopelessness  of  it  all. 
The  child  is  still  crying.  She  notices  it  for  the 
first  time  and  goes  over  to  the  bed  to  soothe  it. 
The  policeman  keeps  a  tight  hold  of  one  of  her 
arms.  She  speaks  words  of  tenderness  to  the  child 
in  dull,  mechanical  tones.  It  stops  crying.  All  are 
looking  at  her  in  silence  with  a  trace  of  compas 
sionate  pity  on  their  faces.  Rose  seems  in  a  trance. 
Her  eyes  are  like  the  eyes  of  a  blind  woman.  She 
seems  to  be  aware  of  something  in  the  room  which 
none  of  the  others  can  see — perhaps  the  personifica 
tion  of  the  ironic  life  force  that  has  crushed  her.) 

FIRST  PLAIN  CLOTHES  MAN— "Your  kid?" 

ROSE — ( To  the  unseen  presence  in  the  room.) 
"Yes.  I  suppose  yuh'll  take  her  too?" 

FIRST  PLAIN  CLOTHES  MAN — (Misunderstand 
ing  her,  good  naturedly.)  "I'll  take  care  of  her 
for  the  time  bein'." 


70  THE  WEB 

ROSE—  (To  the  air.)  "That's  right.  Make  a 
good  job  of  me."  (Suddenly  she  stretches  both 
arms  above  her  head  and  cries  bitterly,  mournfully, 
out  of  the  depths  of  her  desolation:)  "Gawd! 
Gawd!  Why  d'yiih  hate  me  so?'1 

THE  POLICEMAN — (Shocked.)  "Here,  here,  no 
rough  talk  like  that.  Come  along  now!"  (Rose 
leans  against  him  weakly  and  he  supports  her  to 
the  door  where  the  group  of  horrified  lodgers  silent 
ly  make  way  for  them.  The  Second  Plain  Clothes 
Man  follows  them.  A  momtnt  later  Rose's  hollow 
cough  echoes  in  the  dark  hallway.  The  child  wakes 
up  and  cries  fitfully.  The  First  Plain  Clothes  Man 
goes  over  to  the  bed  and  cuddles  her  on  his  lap  with 
elephantine  play  fullness.) 

THE  CHILD—  (Feebly.)     "Maamaaaa!" 

THE  FIRST  PLAIN  CLOTHES  MAN — "Mama's 
gone.  I'm  your  Mama  now." 

CURT4IN 


WARNINGS 
A  PLAY  IN  ONE  Aci 

SCENE  I — The  dining-room  of  Jame*  Knapp's 
flat  in  the  Bronx,  New  York  City. 

SCENE  II — Section  of  the  boat  deck  of  the  S.  S. 
"Empress"  showing  the  wireless  room.  (  About  tu-o 
mtmtks  irttr.) 

CHARACTERS 

Jemfs  Kn*pp — H'\-:'.t>>  ctr-tor  o*  the  S.  S.  "£m- 

*m.~ 


um    fyrf  Qtfnr 


M       IFtrtUa   •jaw**   •/ 


5.    5, 


WARNINGS 

Scene  I — The  dining  room  of  James  Knapp's  flat 
in  the  Bronx,  N.  Y.  City.  To  the  left  is  a  door 
opening  into  the  main  hall,  farther  back  a  chair, 
and  then  a  heavy  green  curtain  which  screens  off  an 
alcove  probably  used  as  a  bedroom.  To  the  right  a 
doorway  leading  into  the  kitchen,  another  chair, 
and  a  window,  with  some  plants  in  pots  on  the  sill, 
which  opens  on  a  court.  Hanging  in  front  of  the 
window  is  a  gilt  cage  in  which  a  canary  chirps  sleep 
ily.  The  walls  of  the  room  are  papered  an  im 
possible  green  and  the  floor  is  covered  with  a  worn 
carpet  of  nearly  the  same  color.  Several  gaudy 
Sunday-supplement  pictures  in  cheap  gilt  frames  are 
hung  at  spaced  intervals  around  the  walls.  The 
dining  table  with  its  flowered  cover  is  pushed  back 
against  the  middle  wall  to  allow  of  more  space  for 
free  passage  between  the  kitchen  and  the  front  part 
of  the  flat.  On  the  wall  above  the  table  is  a  mantle 
piece  on  the  middle  of  which  a  black  marble  clock 
ticks  mournfully.  The  clock  is  flanked  on  both 
sides  by  a  formidable  display  of  family  photographs. 
Above  the  mantle  hangs  a  "Home  Sweet  Home" 
motto  in  a  black  frame.  A  lamp  of  the  Welsbach 

73 


74  WARNINGS 

type,  fixed  on  the  chandelier  which  hangs  from  the 
middle  of  the  ceiling,  floods  the  small  room  with 
bright  light.  It  is  about  half-past  eight  of  an 
October  evening.  The  time  is  the  present. 

Mrs.  Knapp  is  discovered  sittm^m  the  end  of 
the  table  near  the  kitchen.  She  is  a  pale,  thin,  peev 
ish-looking  woman  of  about  forty,  made  premature 
ly  old  by  the  thousand  worries  of  a  penny-pinching 
existence.  Her  originally  fine  constitution  has  been 
broken  down  by  the  bearing  of  many  children  in 
conditions  under  which  every  new  arrival  meant  a 
new  mouth  crying  for  its  share  of  the  already  inade 
quate  supply  of  life's  necessities.  Her  brown  hair, 
thickly  streaked  with  gray,  is  drawn  back  tightly 
over  her  ears  into  a  knot  at  the  back  of  her  head. 
Her  thin-lipped  mouth  droops  sorrowfully  at  the 
corners,  and  her  faded  blue  eyes  have  an  expression 
of  fretful  weariness.  She  wears  a  soiled  grey  wrap 
per  and  black  carpet  slippers.  When  she  speaks,  her 
voice  is  plaintively  querulous  and  without  authority. 

Two  of  the  children,  Lizzie  and  Sue,  are  seated 
on  her  left  facing  the  family  photos.  They  are 
both  bent  over  the  table  with  curly  blond  heads  close 
together.  Under  Lizzie's  guidance  Sue  is  attempt 
ing  to  write  something  on  the  pad  before  her.  Both 
are  dressed  in  clean  looking  dark  clothes  with  black 
shoes  and  stockings. 

LIZZIE — "That's  not  the  way  to  make  a  'g.'  Give 


WARNINGS  75 

me  the  pencil  and  I'll  show  you."  (She  tries  to 
take  the  pencil  away  from  Sue.) 

SUE — (Resisting  and  commencing  to  cry.)  "I 
don'  wanta  give  you  the  pencil.  Mama-a!  Make 
her  stop!" 

MRS.  KNAPP — (Wearily.)  "For  goodness'  sake 
stop  that  racket,  Sue!  Give  her  the  pencil,  Lizzie! 
You  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  fight  with  your  little 
sister — and  you  so  much  older  than  her.  I  declare 
a  body  can't  have  a  moment's  peace  in  this  house 
with  you  children  all  the  time  wranglin'  and  fight- 


in'." 


SUE — (Bawling  louder  than  ever.)  "Mama-a! 
She  won't  give  it  to  me!" 

MRS.  KNAPP — (With  an  attempt  vt  firmness.) 
"Lizzie!  Did  you  hear  what  I  said?  Give  her 
that  pencil  this  instant!" 

LIZZIE — (Not  impressed.)  "I  wanta  show  her 
how  to  make  a  *g'  and  she  won't  let  me.  Make  her 
stop,  Mama!" 

SUE — (Screaming.)  "I  did  make  a  'g!'  I  did 
make  a  'gl'" 

LIZZIE — "Ooo!  Listen  to  her  tellin'  lies,  Mama. 
She  didn't  make  a  'g'  at  all.  She  don't  know  how." 

SUE — "I  do!     Gimme  that  pencil." 

LIZZIE — "You  don't.     I  won't  give  it  to  you." 

MRS.  KNAPP — (Aggravated  into  action  gets 
quickly  from  her  chair  and  gives  Lizzie  a  ringing 


76  WARNINGS 

box  on  the  ear.)  "There,  you  naughty  child!  That 
will  teach  you  to  do  what  I  say.  Give  me  that 
pencil."  (She  snatches  it  from  Lizzie's  hand  and 
gives  it  to  Sue.)  "There's  the  pencil!  For  good 
ness  sake  hush  up  your  cryin'!"  (Sue  subsides  into 
sobbing  but  Lizzie  puts  her  hand  over  the  smarting 
ear  and  starts  to  howl  with  ell  her  might.) 

SUE — (Whimpering  again  as  she  discovers  the 
point  of  the  pencil  has  been  broken  off.)  "Look 
Mama!  She  broke  the  pencil!" 

MRS.  KNAPP—  (Distracted.)  "Be  still  and  I'll 
sharpen  it  for  you."  (Turning  to  Lizzie  and  tak 
ing  her  on  her  lap.)  "There!  There!  Stop  cry- 
in'!  Mama  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you."  (Lizzie 
only  cries  the  harder.)  "Stop  crying  and  I'll  give 
you  a  piece  of  candy."  (Lizzie's  anguish  vanishes 
in  a  flash.)  "Kiss  mama  now  and  promise  not  to 
be  naughty  any  more!" 

LIZZIE* — (Kissing  her  obediently.)  "I  promise. 
Where's  the  candy  Mama?" 

SUE — (No  longer  interested  in  pencils.)  "I 
wanta  piece  of  candy  too." 

MRS.  KNAPP — (Goes  to  the  kitchen  and  returns 
with  two  sticky  chunks  of  molasses  candy.)  "Here 
Lizzie!  Here  Sue!"  (Sue  manages  with  some  ef 
fort  to  cram  the  candy  into  her  small  mouth.) 
"Neither  one  of  you  said  'thank  you/  "  (Lizzie 
dutifully  numbles  "thanks"  but  Sue  is  beyond 


WARNINGS  77 

speech.)  "I  declare  I  don't  know  what  I'll  do  with 
you  children.  You  never  seem  to  learn  manners. 
It's  just  as  if  you  were  brought  up  on  the  streets — 
the  way  you  act."  (The  clock  strikes  8.30  and 
Mrs.  Knapp  looks  at  it  gratefully.)  "There,  chil 
dren.  It's  half-past  eight  and  you  must  both  go  to 
bed  right  away.  Goodness  knows  I  have  a  hard 
enough  time  gettin*  you  up  for  school  in  the  morn 
ing." 

SUE — (Having  eaten  enough  of  her  candy  to  al 
low  of  her  voicing  a  protest.)  "I  don'  wanta  go 
to  bed." 

LIZZIE — (Sulking.)  "You  said  you'd  let  us  stay 
up  to  see  Papa." 

SUE — "I  wanta  see  Papa." 

MRS.  KNAPP — "That  will  do.  I  won't  listen 
to  any  more  of  your  talk.  You've  seen  your  father 
all  afternoon.  That's  only  an  excuse  to  stay  up 
late.  He  went  to  the  doctor's  and  goodness  knows 
when  he'll  be  back.  I  promised  to  let  you  sit  up 
till  half-past  eight  and  it's  that  now.  Come  now! 
Kiss  me  Hke  two  good  little  girls  and  go  straight 
to  bed."  (The  two  good  little  girls  perform  their 
kissing  with  an  ill  grace  and  depart  slowly  for  bed 
through  the  alcove.) 

MRS.  KNAPP — "Mind  you  don't  wake  the  baby 
with  your  carryings-on  or  I'll  tell  your  father  to 
spank  you  good."  (She  has  an  afterthought.)  "And 


78  WARNINGS 

don't  forget  your  prayers!"  (She  sinks  back  with 
a  deep  sigh  of  relief  and  taking  up  an  evening  paper 
from  the  table,  commences  to  read.  She  has  hardly 
settled  back  comfortably  when  shouts  and  the  noise 
of  running  steps  are  heard  from  the  stairs  in  the 
hallway.  Then  a  rattling  tattoo  of  knocks  shakes 
the  door  and  a  girl's  voice  laughingly  shouts  thro' 
the  key  hole,  'Open  up  Ma!'") 

MRS.  KNAPP — (Going  quickly  to  the  door  and 
unlocking  it.)  "Hush  up  your  noise  for  goodness 
sakes!  Do  you  want  to  wake  up  the  baby?  I 
never  saw  such  children.  You  haven't  any  feelin' 
for  your  mother  at  all." 

(Charles  and  Dolly  push  hurriedly  into  the 
room.  Mrs.  Knapp  locks  the  door  again  and  re 
sumes  her  seat  at  the  table.  Charles  is  a  gawky, 
skinny  youth  of  fifteen  who  has  outgrown  his 
clothes,  and  whose  arms  and  legs  seem  to  have  out 
grown  him.  His  features  are  large  and  irregular; 
his  eyes  small  and  watery-blue  in  color.  When  he 
takes  off  his  cap  a  mop  of  sandy  hair  falls  over  his 
forehead.  He  is  dressed  in  a  shabby  grey  Norfolk 
suit. 

Although  extremely  thin,  Dolly  is  rather  pretty 
with  her  dark  eyes,  and  brown  curls  hanging  over 
her  shoulders.  She  is  dressed  neatly  in  a  dark  blue 
frock  with  black  shoes  and  stockings  and  a  black 
felt  hat,  Her  ordinarily  sallow  city  complexion 


WARNINGS  79 

is  flushed  from  the  run  upstairs.) 

DOLLY — (Rushing  over  and  kissing  her  mother 
— mischievously.)  'What  do  you  think  I  saw, 
Ma?" 

CHARLIE — (In  a  loud  voice — almost  a  thout.) 
What  do  you  think  /  saw,  Mom?" 

MRS.  KNAPP — "For  heaven's  sake,  Charlie,  speak 
lower.  Do  you  want  the  people  in  the  next  block 
to  hear  you?  If  you  wake  up  the  baby  I  shall  cer 
tainly  tell  your  father  on  you.  Take  off  your  hat 
when  you're  in  the  house!  Whatever  is  the  matter 
with  you?  Can't  you  remember  anything?  I'm 
really  ashamed  of  you — the  way  you  act." 

CHARLIE — (Taking  off  his  cap.)  "Aw,  what's 
the  matter,  Mom?  Gee,  you're  got  an  awful  grouch 
on  tonight." 

MRS.  KNAPP — "Never  mind  talkin'  back  to  your 
mother,  young  man.  Why  shouldn't  I  be  cranky 
with  you  bellowin*  around  here  like  a  young  bull? 
I  just  got  the  baby  to  sleep  and  if  you  wake  her 
up  with  your  noise  heaven  knows  when  I'll  get  any 
peace  again." 

DOLLY — (Interrupting  her — with  a  laughing 
glance  at  Charlie.)  "You  can't  guess  what  I  saw, 
Ma." 

CHARLIE — (Sheepishly.)  "Aw,  all  right  for  you. 
Go  ahead  and  tell  her  if  you  wanta.  I  don't  care. 
I'll  tell  her  what  I  saw  too." 


8o  WARNINGS 

DOLLY — "You  didn't  sec  anything." 

CHARLIE—-44!  did  too." 

DOLLY— "You  didn't." 

MRS.  KNAPP — "For  goodness  sake  stop  your 
quarrclin'I  First  it's  Lizzie  and  Sue  and  then  it's 
you  two.  I  never  get  rime  to  even  read  a  paper. 
What  was  it  you  saw,  Dolly?  Tell  me  if  you're 
going  to." 

DOLLY — "I  saw  Charlie  and  that  red-headed 
Harris  girl  in  the  corner  drug  store.  He  was  buy 
ing  her  ice  cream  soda  with  that  quarter  Pop  gave 
him." 

CHARLIE — "I  was  no  such  thing." 

DOLLY — "Oh,  what  a  lie!  You  know  you  were." 

MRS.  KNAPP — "You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
yourself,  you  big  gump,  you,  goin'  round  with  girls 
at  your  age  and  spendin'  money  on  them.  I'll  tell 
your  father  how  you  spend  the  money  he  gives  you 
and  it'll  be  a  long  time  before  you  get  another 
cent." 

CHARLIE — (Sullenly.)  "Aw  you  needn't  think 
I'm  the  only  one."  (Pointing  to  Dolly.)  "I  saw 
her  down  in  the  hallway  with  that  Dutch  kid  whose 
father  runs  the  saloon  in  the  next  block.  It  was 
dark  down  there  too.  I  could  hardly  see  them. 
And  he's  cross-eyed !" 

DOLLY— "He  is  not." 

CHARLIE — "Aw  g'wan,  of  course  he  is.  He  can't 


WARNINGS  81 

see  straight  or  he'd  never  look  at  you." 

DOLLY— "He's  better  than  you  are." 

CHARLIE — (Losing  control  of  his  voice  and 
shouting  again.)  "I'll  hand  him  a  punch  in  the 
eye  the  first  time  I  see  him.  That's  what  I'll  do  to 
him,  the  Dutch  boob.  And  I'll  slap  you  in  the  nose 
too  if  you  get  too  fresh."  (Dolly  starts  to  cry.) 

MRS.  KNAPP — (Rising  up  swiftly  and  giving 
him  a  crack  over  the  ear  with  her  open  hand.) 
"That'll  teach  you,  young  man !  Don't  you  dare 
to  lay  a  hand  on  your  sister  or  your  father  will 
whip  you  good." 

CHARLIE — (Backing  away  with  his  hand  on  his 
ear — in  a  whimper.)  "Aw,  what  are  you  always 
pickin'  on  me  for?  Why  don't  you  say  something 
to  her?" 

MRS.  KNAPP — (Turning  to  the  still  tearful 
Dolly.)  "And  you,  Miss!  Don't  you  let  me  hear 
of  you  bein'  in  any  dark  hallways  with  young  men 
again  or  I'll  take  you  over  my  knee,  so  I  will.  The 
idea  of  such  a  thing!  I  can't  understand  you  at  all. 
I  never  was  allowed  out  alone  with  anyone,- — not 
even  with  your  father,  before  I  was  engaged  to  be 
married  to  him.  I  don't  know  what's  come  over 
you  young  folks  nowadays." 

DOLLY— "It— wasn't-— dark." 

MRS.  KNAPP — "It  makes  no  difference.  You 
heard  what  I  said.  Don't  let  it  happen  again." 


82  WARNINGS 

(Dolly  wipes  her  eyes  and  makes  a  face  at  Charlie.) 

CHARLIE — (Jffif  tones  loud  with  triumph.)  "It 
was  awful  dark.  She's  liein*  to  you,  Mom." 

MRS.  KNAPP — "Hold  your  tongue!  I've  heard 
enough  from  you.  And  don't  yell  at  the  top  of 
your  voice.  You  don't  have  to  shout.  I'm  not 
deaf." 

CHARLIE — (Lower.)  "All  right,  Mom.  But 
I've  got  into  the  habit  of  talking  loud  since  Pop's 
been  home.  He  don't  seem  to  hear  me  when  I 
talk  low." 

DOLLY — "That's  right,  Ma.  I  was  talking  to 
him  this  morning  and  when  I  got  through  he  didnvt 
know  half  that  I'd  told  him." 

MRS.  KNAPP — "Your  father  has  a  bad  cold  and 
his  head  is  all  stopped  up.  He  says  he  hasn't  got 
a  cold  but  I  know  better.  I've  been  that  way  my 
self.  But  he  won't  believe  me.  So  he's  gone  to  pay 
five  dollars  to  an  ear  specialist  when  all  he  needs  is 
a  dose  of  quinine — says  a  wireless  operator  can't 
afford  to  take  chances.  I  told  him  a  wireless  opera 
tor  couldn't  afford  to  pay  five  dollars  for  nothin' — 
specially  when  he's  got  a  wife  and  five  children." 
(Peevishly.)  "I  don't  know  what's  come  over 
your  father.  He  don't  seem  like  the  same  man 
since  this  last  trip  on  the  'Empress.'  I  think  it 
must  be  that  South  American  climate  that's  affectin' 
him." 


WARNINGS  83 

DOLLY— "He's  awful  cross  since  he's  been  home 
this  time.  He  yells  at  Charlie  and  me  for  nothing." 

MRS.  KNAPP — "He'd  be  all  right  if  he  could  get 
another  job.  But  he's  afraid  if  he  gives  up  this 
one  he  won't  be  able  to  get  another.  Your  father 
ain't  as  young  as  he  used  to  be  and  they  all  want 
young  men  now.  He's  got  to  keep  on  workin*  or 
we'd  never  be  able  to  even  pay  the  rent.  Goodness 
knows  his  salary  is  small  enough.  If  it  wasn't  for 
your  brother  Jim  sendin'  us  a  few  dollars  every 
month,  and  Charlie  earnin'  five  a  week,  and  me 
washin',  we'd  never  be  able  to  get  along  even  with 
your  father's  salary.  But  heaven  knows  what  we'd 
do  without  it.  We'd  be  put  out  in  the  streets." 

CHARLIE — '"Is  that  where  Pop's  gone  tonight — 
to  the  doctor's?" 

MRS.  KNAPP — "Yes,  and  I  don't  know  what  can 
be  keepin'  him  so  long.  He  left  after  supper  right 
after  you  did.  You'd  think  he'd  spend  his  last 
night  at  home  when  we  won't  see  him  again  for 
three  months." 

CHARLIE — "Shall  I  go  out  and  see  if  I  can  see 
him?" 

MRS.  KNAPP — "Don't  go  makin'  excuses  to  get 
out  on  the  street.  You  better  go  to  bed  if  you 
wanta  be  up  on  time  in  the  morning — you  too, 
Dolly." 

DOLLY — "I  still  got  some  of  my  lessons  to  fin- 


84  WARNINGS 

ish."  ( There  if  a  sound  from  the  hallway  of  some 
one  coming  up  the  stairs  with  slow,  heavy  steps.) 

MRS.  KNAPP — "Here  your  father  comes  now! 
Get  into  the  parlor,  Dolly,  if  you  wanta  do  your 
lessons.  Don't  let  him  see  you  up  so  late.  Keep 
the  light  shaded  so  you  won't  wake  up  the  baby." 
(The  steps  stop  before  the  door  and  a  knock  is 
heard.)  "Charlie,  go  open  that  door.  My  feet  are 
worn  out  from  standin'  up  all  day."  (Charlie  opens 
the  door  and  James  Knapp  enters.  He  is  a  slight, 
stoop-shouldered,  thin-faced  man  of  about  fifty. 
When  he  takes  off  his  derby  hat  he  reveals  a  long 
narrow  head  almost  completely  bald  with  a  thin 
line  of  gray  hair  extending  over  his  large  ears  around 
the  back  of  his  head.  His  face  has  been  tanned 
by  the  tropic  sun — but  now  it  seems  a  sickly  yellow 
in  the  white  glare  of  the  lamp.  His  eyes  are  small, 
dark,  and  set  close  together;  his  nose  stubby  and  of 
no  particular  shape;  his  mouth  large  and  weak. 
He  is  dressed  in  a  faded,  brown  suit  and  unshined 
tan  shoes.  His  expression  must  be  unusually  de 
pressed  as  he  stands  nervously  fingering  his  drooping, 
gray  moustache,  for  Mrs.  Knapp  looks  at  him 
sharply  for  a  moment,  then  gets  up  quickly  and  goes 
over  and  kisses  him.) 

MRS.  KNAPP — (Pulling  out  the  arm  chair  from 
the  other  end  of  the  table  for  him.)  "Come!  Sit 
down!  You  look  all  worn  out.  You  shouldn't 


WARNINGS  85 

walk  so  much.11 

KNAPP — (Sinking  into  the  chair  and  speaking 
in  a  slow,  dull  voice.)  "I  am  a  bit  tired."  (He 
stares  at  the  flowered  patterns  of  the  table  cover 
for  a  moment — then  sighs  heavily.) 

MRS.  KNAPP — "Whatever  is  the  matter  with 
you?  You  look  as  if  you'd  lost  your  last  friend." 

KNAPP — (Pulling  himself  together  and  smiling 
feebly.)  "I  guess  I've  got  the  blues.  I  get  to  think 
ing  about  how  I've  got  to  sail  tomorrow  on  that 
long,  lonesome  trip,  and  how  I  won't  see  any  of  you 
for  three  months,  and  it  sort  of  makes  me  feel  bad. 
I  wish  I  could  throw  up  this  job.  I  wish  I  was 
young  enough  to  try  something  else." 

CHARLIE — (Who  is  slouched  down  in  a  chair 
with  hands  in  his  pockets  speaks  in  his  lowest,  nicest 
voice.)  "Aw,  cheer  up,  Pop!  It  won't  seem  long. 
I  should  think  you'd  be  glad  to  get  out  of  the  cold 
weather.  Gee,  I  wish't  I  had  a  chance." 

KNAPP — (Looking  at  him  blankly.)  "Eh? 
What  was  that,  Charlie?  I  didn't  quite  hear  what 
you  said." 

CHARLIE — (In  his  best  bellow.)  "I  said:  Cheer 
up!  It  won't  seem  long." 

KNAPP — (Shaking  his  head  sadly.)  "It's  easy 
for  you  to  say  that.  You're  young."  (The  shrill 
crying  of  a  baby  sounds  from  behind  the  green 
curtain  of  the  alcove.) 


86  WARNINGS 

MRS.  KNAPP — (Turning  on  Charlie  furiously.) 
"There  1  You're  gone  and  done  it  with  your  big, 
loud  mouth.  I  told  you  to  speak  lower."  (Turn 
ing  to  her  husband.)  "James,  I  wish  you'd  do 
something  to  make  him  behave.  He  don't  mind 
what  I  say  at  all.  Look  at  him — sprawled  all  over 
the  chair  with  his  long  legs  stretched  out  for  every 
body  to  trip  over.  Is  that  the  way  to  sit  on  a  chair? 
Anybody'd  think  you  were  brought  up  in  a  barn. 
I  declare  I'm  ashamed  to  have  you  go  anywhere  for 
fear  you'd  disgrace  me." 

CHARLIE — "You'd  needn't  worry.  There's  no 
place  for  me  to  go — and  if  there  was  I  wouldn't  go 
there  with  these  old  clothes  on.  Why  don't  you 
ball  out  Pop?  He  couldn't  hear  me,  so  I  had  to 
speak  louder." 

KNAPP — (With  sudden  irritation.)  "Of  course 
I  heard  you.  But  I  wasn't  paying  any  attention  to 
what  you  said.  I  have  other  things  to  think  about 
beside  your  chatter."  (Charlie  sulks  back  in  his 
chair. ) 

MRS.  KNAPP— "That's  right  James.  I  knew 
you'd  have  to  -tell  him  where  he  belongs.  You'd 
think  he  owned  the  house  the  way  he  acts."  (A 
piercing  wail  comes  from  behind  the  curtain  and 
Mrs.  Knapp  hurries  there  saying:)  "Hush!  Hush! 
I'm  coming."  (She  can  be  heard  soothing  the 
baby.) 


WARNINGS  87 

CHARLIE — (Plucking  up  his  courage  now  that 
his  mother  is  out  of  the  room.)  "Say,  Pop!" 

KNAPP— "Well,  Charlie,  what  is  it?" 

CHARLIE — "Please  can  I  have  a  new  suit  of 
clothes?  Gee,  I  need  'em  bad  enough.  This  one  is 
full  of  patches  and  holes  and  all  the  other  kids  down 
at  the  store  laugh  at  me  'cause  I  ain't  got  long  pants 
on  and  these  don't  fit  me  any  more.  Please  can  I 
have  a  new  suit,  Pop  ?" 

KNAPP-*- (A  look  of  pain  crossing  his  features.) 
"I'm  afraid  not  just  now,  boy."  (Charlie  descends 
into  the  depths  of  gloom.)  "You  see,  I've  had 
to  go  to  this  doctor  about."  (He  hesitates.)  "The 
— er — trouble  I've  had  with  my  stomach,  and  he's 
very  expensive.  But  when  I  come  back  from  this 
trip  I'll  surely  buy  you  a  fine  new  suit  with  long 
pants  the  very  first  thing  I  do.  I  promise  it  to  you 
and  you  know  I  don't  break  my  promises.  Try  and 
get  along  with  that  one  until  I  get  back." 

CHARLIE—  (Ruefully.)  "All  right,  Pop.  I'll 
try,  but  I'm  afraid  it's  going  to  bust  if  I  get  any 
bigger." 

KNAPP — "That's  a  good  boy.  We  haven't  been 
having  much  luck  lately  and  we've  all  got  to  stand 
for  our  share  of  doing  without  things.  I  may  have 
to  do  without  a  lot — "  (He  turns  his  face  away 
to  hide  his  emotion  from  Charlie.  A  sob  shakes 
his  shoulders.  Charlie  notices  it  and  goes  over 


88  WARNINGS 

clumsily  and  pats  his  father  on  the  back.) 

CHARLIE — "Gee,  Pop,  what's  the  matter?  I  can 
get  along  without  a  suit  all  right.  I  wouldn't  have 
asked  you  if  I  thought  you  was  so  blue." 

KNAPP — "Never  mind  me,  boy.  I'm  just  not 
feeling  well,  that's  all — something  I  must  have 
eaten— or  a  touch  of  fever."  (He  glances  at  the 
clock.)  "It's  getting  pretty  late,  Charlie,  and  you've 
got  to  be  up  early  in  the  morning.  Better  go  to 
bed.  Your  mother  and  I  have  a  lot  to  talk  about 
yet— things  which  wouldn't  interest  you." 

CHARLIE— "All  right,  Pop.  Good  night.  I'll 
see  you  in  the  morning  before  I  go." 

KNAPP — "Good  night  and — remember  I'm  try 
ing  to  do  the  best  I  know  how."  (Charlie  disap 
pears  behind  the  green  curtain.  Knapp  stares  at 
the  table,  his  head  between  his  hands,  his  face  full 
of  suffering.  Mrs.  Knapp  comes  back  into  the 
room.  The  baby  is  safely  asleep  again.) 

MRS.  KNAPP — "You  sent  Charlie  to  bed,  didn't 
you?"  (He  nods.)  "That's  right.  He  stays  up 
altogether  too  late  nights.  He's  always  prowlin* 
abound  the  streets.  I  don't  know  what  will  become 
of  him  I'm  sure.  Dolly  told  me  tonight  she  saw 
Mm  buyin'  soda  for  that  red-headed  Harris  girl 
with  the  quarter  you  gave  him.  What  do  you  think 
of  that?  And  he  says  he  saw  her  talkin*  in  the 
ttark  hallway  downstairs  with  some  German  bar- 


WARNINGS  89 

tender's  boy.    What  do  you  think  of  that?"      >  ; 

KNAPP— (Af*7<//y.) /Where's  the  hurt?  They're 
only  kids  and  they've  got  to  have  some  fun." 

MRS.  KNAPP — "Fun?  I'm  glad  you  call  it  fun. 
I  think  it  disgraceful." 

KNAPP — "Come,  come,  you  exaggerate  every 
thing  so.  I  see  no  harm  in  it.  God  knows  I  have 
enough  to  worry  about  without  being  bothered  with 
children's  pranks." 

MRS.  KNAPP — (Scornfully.)  "You  have  wor 
ries?  And  what  are  they,  I'd  like  to  know?  You 
sail  away  and  have  a  fine  time  with  nothirT  to  do 
but  eat  the  best  of  food  and  talk  to  the  pretty 
women  in  the  First  Class.  Worries?  I  wish  you'd 
stay  home  and  change  places  with  me— cookin', 
scrubbin',  takin'  care  of  the  children,  puttin'  off  the 
grocer  and  the  butcher,  doin'  washin'  and  savin* 
every  penny.  You'd  soon  find  out  what  worry 
meant  then." 

KNAPP — (Placatingly.)  "I  know  you  have  to 
put  up  with  a  lot,  Mary,  and  I  wish  I  could  do 
something' to  make  it  easier  for  you."  (Brokenly.) 
"I  don't  know  what's  going  to  become  of  us — now." 

MRS.  KNAPP — "Oh,  we'll  manage  to  get  along 
as  we  have  been  doin',  I  expect." 

KNAPP — "But — Mary — something  terrible  has 
happened.  I'm  almost  afraid  to  tell  you." 

MRS.    KNAPP— "What    do    you    mean?    You 


90  WARNINGS 

haven't  lost  your  job,  have  you?" 

KNAPP — "I  went  to  see  that  ear  specialist  and — " 
(His  emotion  chokes  him;  he  stops  to  regain  his 
composure.) 

MRS.  KNAPP— " Yes  ?" 

KNAPP — (His  voice  breaking  in  spite  of  him 
self.)  "He  says  I'm  losing  my  hearing — that  I'm 
liable  to  go  stone  deaf  at  any  moment."  (He  lets 
his  head  fall  on  his  arms  with  a  sob.) 

MRS.  KNAPP — (Coming  over  and  putting  her 
arm  around  him.)  "There  Jim!  Don't  take  on 
about  it  so.  All  those  doctors  make  things  worse 
than  they  really  are.  He's  just  tryin'  to  scare  you 
so  you'll  keep  comin'  to  see  him.  Why,  you  can 
hear  just  as  well  as  I  can." 

KNAPP — "No,  I've  noticed  how  hard  it's  been 
for  me  to  catch  some  of  the  messages  lately.  And 
since  I've  been  home  I've  had  a  hard  time  of  it  now 
and  then  to  understand  the  children.  The  doctor 
said  I  would  probably  be  able  to  hear  for  a  long 
time  yet  but  I  got  to  be  prepared  for  a  sudden  shock 
which'll  leave  me  stone  deaf." 

MRS.  KNAPP—  (Quickly.)  "Does  anyone  on  the 
ship  know?" 

KNAPP — "Of  course  not.  If  they  knew  my  hear 
ing  was  going  back  on  me  I  wouldn't  hold  my  job 
a  minute."  (His  voice  trembles.)  "But  I've  got 
to  tell  them  now.  I've  got  to  give  up." 


WARNINGS  91 

MRS.  KNAPP — "You  didn't  tell  the  specialist 
what  you  were,  did  you?" 

KNAPP— "No.    I  said  I  was  a  mechanist?" 

MRS.  KNAPP — (Getting  up  from  her  chair  and 
speaking  in  a  hard  voice.)  "Then  why  have  you 
got  to  tell  them?  If  you  don't  tell  them  they'll 
'never  know.  You  say  yourself  the  doctor  told  you 
your  hearin'  would  hold  out  for  a  long  time  yet." 

KNAPP— "He  said  'probably.'  " 

MRS.  KNAPP — (An  angry  flush  spreading  over 
her  face.)  "Give  up  your  job?  Are  you  a  fool? 
Are  you  such  a  coward  that  a  doctor  can  scare  you 
like  that?" 

KNAPP — "I'm  not  afraid  for  myself.  I'm  not 
afraid  of  being  deaf  if  I  have  to  be.  You  don't 
understand.  You  don't  know  the  responsibility  of 
a  man  in  my  job." 

MRS.  KNAPP — "Responsibility?  You've  told  me 
lots  of  times  there  was  so  few  messages  to  send  and 
take  you  wondered  why  they  had  a  wireless.  What's 
the  matter  with  you  all  of  a  sudden?  You're  not 
deaf  now  and  even  if  that  liein'  doctor  spoke  the 
truth  you'll  hear  for  a  long  time  yet.  He  only 
told  you  about  that  sudden  stroke  to  keep  you  corn- 
in'  to  him.  I  know  the  way  they  talk." 

KNAPP — (Protesting  weakly.)  "But  it  ain't 
right.  I  ought  to  tell  them  and  give  up  the  job. 
Maybe  I  can  get  work  at  something  else." 


9*  WARNINGS 

MRS.  KNAPP—  (Furiously.)  "Right?  And  I 
suppose  you  think  it's  right  to  loaf  around  here 
until  we  all  get  put  out  in  the  streets?  God  knows 
your  salary  is  small  enough  but  without  it  we'd 
starve  to  death.  Can't  you  think  of  others  besides 
yourself?  How  about  me  and  the  children?  What's 
goin'  to  buy  them  clothes  and  food?  I  can't  earn 
enough  and  what  Charlie  gets  wouldn't  keep  him 
alive  for  a  week.  Jim  sends  us  a  few  dollars  a  month 
but  he  don't  get  much  and  he  ain't  workin'  regular. 
We  owe  the  grocer  and  the  butcher  now.  If  they 
found  out  you  wasn't  workin'  they  wouldn't  give 
us  any  more  credit.  And  the  landlord  ?  How  long 
would  he  let  us  stay  here?  You'll  get  other  work? 
Remember  the  last  time  you  tried.  We  had  to  pawn 
everything  we  had  then  and  we  was  half-starved 
when  you  did  land  this  job.  You  had  to  go  back 
to  the  same  old  work,  didn't  you?  They  didn't 
want  you  at  any  telegraph  office,  did  they?  You 
was  too  old  and  slow,  wasn't  you?  Well  you're 
older  and  slower  than  ever  now  and  that's  the  only 
other  job  you're  fit  for."(  With  bitter  scorn.)  "You'll 
get  another  job!"  (She  sits  down  and  covers  her 
face  with  her  hands,  weeping  bitterly.)  "And  this 
is  all  the  thanks  I  get  for  slavin'  and  workin'  my 
fingers  off!  What  a  father  for  my  poor  children! 
Oh,  why  did  I  ever  marry  such  a  man?  It's  been 
nothin'  but  worryin'  and  sufferin'  ever  since." 


WARNINGS  93 

KNAPP — (Who  has  been  writhing  under  the  lash 
of  her  scorn,  is  tortured  beyond  endurance  at  her 
last  reproaches.)  "For  God's  sake  let  me  alone! 
I'll  go!  I'll  go!  But  this  is  going  to  be  my  last 
trip.  I  got  to  do  the  right  thing."  (He  gets  up 
and  pushes  aside  the  green  curtain.)  "Come  on! 
I'm  going  to  bed."  (He  leaves  Mrs.  Knapp  clone. 
She  lifts  her  tear-stained  face  from  her  hand*  and 
sighs  with  relief  as  she  turns  out  the  gas.) 

SCENE  II 

Scene — A  section  of  the  boat  deck  of  the  S.  S. 
"Empress"  just  abaft  of  the  bridge.  The  deck  slants 
sharply  downward  in  the  direction  of  the  bow.  To 
the  left  the  officer's  cabins  with  several  lighted  port 
holes.  Just  in  back  of  them  and  in  the  middle  of 
the  deck  is  the  wireless  room  with  its  door  wide 
open  revealing  James  Knapp  bent  over  his  instru 
ment  on  the  forward  side  of  the  compartment.  His 
face  is  pale  and  set,  and  he  is  busy  sending  out  calls, 
pausing  every  now  and  then  with  a  strained  expres 
sion  as  if  he  were  vainly  trying  to  catch  some  answer 
to  his  messages.  Every  time  he  taps  on  the  key 
the  snarl  of  the  wireless  sounds  above  the  confused 
babble  of  frightened  voices  that  rises  from  the  prom 
enade  deck.  To  the  right  of  the  wireless  room  on 
the  port  side  a  life-raft.  Still  farther  to  the  right 


94  WARNINGS 

one  of  the  funnels.  The  background  is  a  tropic  sky 
blazing  with  stars.  The  wires  running  up  from 
the  wireless  room  to  the  foremast  may  be  seen  dimly 
lined  against  the  sky.  The  time  is  about  eleven 
o'clock. 

Captain  Hardwick  enters  hurriedly  from  the  di 
rection  of  the  bridge  and  walks  across  to  the  door 
of  the  wireless  room  where  he  stands  looking  in  at 
Knapp.  He  is  a  stocky  man  about  fifty  dressed 
in  a  simple  blue  uniform.  His  face  is  reddened  by 
sun  and  wind — that  is,  all  of  it  which  is  not  hidden 
by  his  grey  beard  and  mustache.  He  drums  nerv 
ously  on  the  door.  Knapp  pretends  not  to  see  him 
and  appears  absorbed  in  his  instrument. 

CAPT.  HARDWICK — "No  answer  yet?"  (Knapp 
does  not  reply  and  the  Captain  leans  over  impatient 
ly  and  shakes  him  by  the  shoulder.)  "I  asked  you 
if  there  was  any  answer  yet?" 

KNAPP — (Looking  at  him  furtively.)  "I  haven't 
heard  a  thing  yet,  sir.*' 

CAPT.  HARDWICK — "Damnation?  What  in  hell 
is  the  matter  with  them  ?  Are  they  all  asleep  ?" 

KNAPP — "I'll  try  again  sir."  (He  taps  on  the 
key  before  him  and  the  whine  of  the  wireless  shrills 
out  discordantly.) 

CAPT.  HARDWICK — (Turning  away  with  a  mut 
tered  oath.)  "Well,  I've  got  to  get  back  on  the 
bridge.  Let  me  know  the  moment  you  catch  any- 


WARNINGS  95 


one.1' 


KNAPP—  (Who  has  been  watching  his  lips  move.) 
"Yes,  sir."  (His  tone  is  vague  as  if  he  were  guess- 
ing  at  the  answer.) 

CAPT.  HARDWICK  —  "Tell  'em  we  hit  a  derelict 
and  are  sinking.  Make  it  as  strong  as  you  can. 
We  need  help  and  we  need  it  right  away." 

KNAPP  —  (More  vaguely  than  ever.)     "Yes  sir." 

CAPT.  HARDWICK—  "You  surely  ought  to  get  the 
'Verdari.'  She  can't  be  more  than  a  hundred  miles 
away  if  my  reckoning  is  correct."  (Turning  away 
again.)  "I've  got  to  go.  Keep  sending  until  you 
get  an  answer." 

KNAPP—  "Yes  sir." 

CAPT.  HARDWICK  —  (In  under  hts  breath.) 
"Damn  your  *yes  sirs-'  I  believe  you're  frightened 
out  of  your  wits."  (He  walks  quickly  toward  the 
bridge.  Half-way  across  the  deck  he  is  met  by  Ma 
son  the  first  Officer,  a  tall,  clean-shaven,  middle- 
aged  man  in  uniform  who  hurries  in  from  forward.) 
"Well,  Mason,  how  do  things  look  below?" 

MASON  —  "Very  bad  sir.  I'm  afraid  the  bulk 
head  can't  hold  out  much  longer.  They're  doing 
all  they  can  to  strengthen  it  but  it  don't  look  to 
me  as  if  it  would  stand  the  pressure.  I  wouldn't 
give  it  more  than  half  an  hour  —  an  hour  at  most, 


sir." 


CAPT.   HARDWICK  —  "She's  listing  pretty  badly. 


96  WARNINGS 

Guess  you're  right,  Mason.  When  that  bulkhead 
goes  it's  only  a  question  of  five  or  ten  minutes.  Are 
the  crew  all  ready  to  man  the  boats?" 

MASON— "Yes  sir." 

CAPT.  HARDWICK — "Good!  Passengers  all  on 
deck  and  ready  to  leave?" 

MASON— "Yes  sir." 

CAPT.  HARDWICK — Good !  Lucky  there's  only  a 
few  of  them  or  we'd  be  in  a  nice  mess.  Lucky  it's 
a  calm  night  too.  There'll  be  no  panic."  (There 
is  a  pause  broken  only  by  the  confused  sound  of 
voices  from  below.)  "Damned  funny  we  get  no 
reply  to  our  calls  for  help,  eh?  Don't  you  think 
so?" 

MASON — "Very  funny,  sir.  The  'Verdari*  ought 
to  be  right  around  here  about  this  time.  There 
ought  to  be  four  or  five  vessels  we  could  reach,  I 
should  think." 

CAPT.  HARDWICK — "Just  what  I  told  Knapp. 
The  poor  devil  seems  scared  to  death  because  he 
can't  get  an  answer.  All  he  says  every  time  I  ask 
him  is:"  (Mimicking  Knapp.)  "Haven't  heard 
a  thing  yet,  sir!" 

MASON — He's  told  me  the  same  thing  three  or 
four  times.  I  don't  like  the  looks  of  it,  sir.  He  ap 
pears  to  act  queer  to  me." 

CAPT.  HARDWICK — "You're  right.  He  has  been 
strange  all  during  the  trip— didn't  seem  to  want  to 


WARNINGS  97 

speak  to  anyone.  I  thought  he  must  be  sick.  Think 
it's  drink?" 

MASON — "No  sir.  I  never  saw  him  touch  a 
drop — even  on  shore." 

CAPT.  HARDWICK — "Let's  see  what  he's  got  to 
say  now.  By  God,  we've  got  to  get  a  message  in 
soon  or  there'll  be  the  devil  to  pay."  ( They  both 
go  over  to  the  wireless  room  where  Knapp  is  fren- 
ziedly  sending  out  call  after  call.  The  Captain 
goes  into  the  compartment  and  stands  beside  Knapp. 
Mason  remains  outside  the  door.  Knapp  looks  up 
and  sees  them.  He  glances  fearfully  from  one  to 
the  other.) 

CAPT.  HARDWICK — "Caught  the  'Verdari'  yet?" 

KNAPP — (In  the  uncertain  tone  he  had  used  be 
fore.)  "I  haven't  heard  a  thing  yet,  sir." 

CAPT.  HARDWICK — "Are  you  sure  there's  noth 
ing  wrong  with  this  machine  of  yours?" 

KNAPP — (Bewilderedly.)  "No  sir.  Not  a  single 
answer,  sir.  I  can't  account  for  it,  sir." 

CAPT.  HARDWICK — (Angrily.)  "I  know  that. 
You've  told  me  often  enough.  Answer  my  ques 
tion?  (Knapp  looks  at  him  with  puzzled  eyes; 
then  turns  to  the  key  of  his  instrument.  Capt. 
Hardwick  grabs  him  by  the  shoulder.)  "Did  you 
hear  what  I  said?  Dammit,  answer  my  question." 

KNAPP — (His  lips  trembling.)  "No  sir." 

CAPT.  HARDWICK—  (Furiously.)     "What?" 


98  WARNINGS 

MASON — (Interposing.)  "Excuse  me,  sir,  but 
something's  wrong  with  the  man.  I  don't  think  he 
heard  what  you  said." 

CAPT.  HARDWICK — "The  coward  is  frightened 
silly — that's  what's  the  matter."  (Bending  down 
he  shouts  against  the  receivers  which  Knapp  has 
over  both  his  ears.)  "Say  something,  can't  you? 
Are  you  deaf?"  (Knapp  shrinks  away  from  him, 
his  face  ashy  with  fear,  but  does  not  answer.) 

MASON — "Maybe  it's  those  things  on  his  ears, 


sir." 


CAPT.  HARDWICK — (Taking  hold  of  the  metal 
loops  that  go  over  Knapp's  head  and  jerking  the 
receivers  off  his  ears.)  "Now!  Answer  me!  What 
in  hell's  the  matter  with  you?"  (Then  his  voice 
softening  a  bit.)  "If  you're  sick,  why  don't  you 
say  so?" 

KNAPP — (Looking  at  him  helplessly  for  a  mo 
ment — then  hiding  his  face  in  his  arms  and  weeping 
hysterically.)  "Oh  my  God!  it's  come!"  (The 
Captain  and  Mason  look  at  each  other  in  amaze 
ment  as  Knapp  blurts  out  between  his  sobs.)  "I 
wasn't  sure.  I  was  hoping  against  hope.  I  can't 
hear  a  word  you  say.  I  can't  hear  anything.  It's 
happened  just  as  the  doctor  said  it  might."  (Look 
ing  tip  at  the  Captain  and  clasping  and  unclasping 
his  hands  piteously.  "Oh,  I  should  have  told  you, 
sir,  before  we  started — but  we're  so  poor  and  I 


WARNINGS  99 

couldn't  get  another  job.  I  was  just  going  to  make 
this  one  more  trip.  I  wanted  to  give  up  the  job  this 
time  but  she  wouldn't  let  me.  She  said  I  wanted 
them  to  starve — and  Charlie  asked  me  for  a  suit." 
(His  sobs  stifle  him.)  "Oh  God,  who  would 
have  dream't  this  could  have  happened — at 
such  a  time.  I  thought  it  would  be  all  right 
—just  this  trip.  I'm  not  a  bad  man,  Cap 
tain.  And  now  I'm  deaf — stone  deaf.  I  can't  hear 
what  you  say.  I'm  deaf !  Oh  my  God !  My  God !" 
(He  flings  his  arms  on  the  instrument  in  front 
of  him  and  hides  his  face  on  them,  sobbing  bitterly.) 

CAPT.  HARDWICK — (Turning  to  Mason.) 
"Well,  I'll  be  damned!  What  do  you  make  of 
this?" 

MASON — "I  guess  what  he  says  is  true,  sir.  He's 
gone  deaf.  That's  why  we've  had  no  answer  to 
our  calls." 

CAPT.  HARDWICK — (Fuming  helplessly.)  "What 
in  hell  can  we  do?  I  must  know  they're  coming 
for  us  before  I  send  the  boats  away."  (He  thinks 
a  moment.  Suddenly  his  face  lights  up  and  he 
strikes  his  fist  into  his  open  palm.)  "By  God,  I've 
got  it.  You  know  Dick  Whitney?"  (Mason  nods.) 
"Operator  of  the  'Duchess* — been  laid  up  in  Bahia 
with  fever — came  on  board  there — going  home  on 
vacation — he's  in  the  First  Cabin — run  and  get 
him."  (Mason  runs  down  deck  toward  bridge.) 


ioo  WARNINGS 

"Hurry,  for  God's  sake!"  (Mason  is  gone.  Cap' 
tain  Hardwick  turns  to  Knapp  and  lifting  him  by 
the  arms  helps  him  out  of  cabin  and  sits  him  down 
on  the  life-raft.  Pats  him  roughly  on  back.)  "Brace 
up!  Poor  beggar!"  (Knapp  continues  to  sob 
brokenly.  Mason  reappears  followed  by  Dick 
Whitney,  a  thin,  sallow-faced  young  fellow  of 
about  twenty-five,  wearing  a  light  sack  suit.  He 
shows  the  effect  of  his  recent  battle  with  tropical 
fever  but  he  walks  over  to  the  wireless  room  con 
fidently  enough  and  takes  his  seat  before  the  instru 
ment.) 

CAPT.  HARDWICK — "Get  some  one  quick,  Whit 
ney.  Tell  'em  we're  just  about  to  launch  the  boats." 

WHITNEY — (Who  has  put  the  receivers  over 
his  ears.)  "They're  calling  us  now,  sir."  (He 
sends  answering  call — a  pause.)  "It's  the  'Ver- 
dari.'  " 

CAPT.  HARDWICK — "Good!  I  knew  she  ought 
to  be  near  us." 

WHITNEY — "Operator  says  they're  coming  full 
speed — ought  to  reach  us  before  daylight — wants 
to  know  if  we  can't  keep  up  till  then." 

CAPT.  HARDWICK— "No.  Tell  them  the  bulk 
head  almost  gone.  We're  due  to  sink  within  an 
hour  at  most."  (To  Mason.)  "Better  go  down 
and  see  how  things  are  below."  (Mason  leaves 
hurriedly.) 


WARNINGS  ,101 

WHITNEY— "All  right,  sir."  (He  taps  on  the 
key — the  wail  of  the  wireless  sounds  again — then  a 
pause.) 

CAPT.  HARDWICK — "What  do  they  say  now?" 

WHITNEY— (fl'iV/j  a  slight  smile.)  "  'Hard 
luck.1 " 

CAPT.  HARDWICK — (Exploding.)  "Damn  their 
sympathy!" 

WHITNEY — "The  operator  says  he's  been  trying 
to  communicate  with  us  for  a  long  time.  He  got 
our  messages  all  right  but  we  never  seemed  to  get 
his."  (The  Capt.  glances  at  Knapp  who  is  still 
sitting  on  the  life-raft  with  his  face  hidden  in  his 
hands.)  "He  says  he  got  a  call  from  one  of  the 
Fruit  Co.'s  boats.  She's  rushing  to  help  us  too. 
He  wants  to  know  if  we've  heard  anything  from 
her." 

CAPT.  HARDWICK — "No."  (He  looks  at  Knapp 
again,  then  speaks  dryly.)  "Tell  him  our  receiving 
apparatus  has  been  out  of  order." 

WHITNEY — (Looks  up  in  surprise— then  sends 
the  message — there  is  a  pause.)  "He  asks  if  we're 
sure  it  was  a  derelict  we  struck — says  the  'Verdari' 
sighted  one  about  where  we  are  now  yesterday  and 
he  sent  out  warnings  to  all  vessels  he  could  reach — 
says  he  tried  to  get  us  especially  because  he  knew 
we  passed  this  way;  but  if  our  receiving  end  was 
bad  that  explains  it." 


103  WARNINGS 

CAPT.  HARDWICK—  (Staring  at  Knapp.)  "By 
God!" 

WHITNEY — "Anything  more  you  want  to  say, 
sir?'1 

CAPT.  HARDWICK — (Mechanically.)  "Tell  them 
to  hurry,  that's  all."  (Suddenly  in  a  burst  of 
rage  he  strides  toward  Knapp  and  raises  his  fist  as 
if  to  strike  him.  Mason  comes  in  from  astern  and 
steps  in  between  them.  Capt.  Hardwick  glares  at 
him  for  a  moment — then  recovers  himself.)  "You're 
right,  Mason.  I  won't  touch  him;  but  that  mis 
erable,  cowardly  shrimp  has  lost  my  ship  for  me.'* 
(His  face  plainly  shows  how  much  this  loss  means 
to  him.  Mason  does  not  understand  what  he  means. 
Capt.  Hardwick  turns  to  the  wireless  room  again 
where  young  Whitney  is  sitting  expectantly  await 
ing  orders.)  "Say  Whitney!  Write  out  that  last 
message  from  the  'Verdari*  about  her  sending  out 
warnings  of  that  derelict  yesterday — warnings 
which  we  didn't  get.  Put  down  how  the  operator 
on  the  'Verdari'  tried  especially  to  warn  us  because 
he  knew  we  would  pass  this  way."  (Mason  now 
understands  and  turns  from  Knapp  with  a  glance 
full  of  scorn.  Whitney  writes  rapidly  on  the  report 
pad  near  him  and  hands  the  sheet  to  the  Capt.  who 
walks  over  to  Knapp  and  shaking  him,  holds  the 
message  out.  Knapp  takes  it  in  a  trembling  hand.) 

MASON — "I've  got  all  the  men  up  from  below, 


WARNINGS  103 

sir.  The  bulkhead's  ready  to  go  any  minute.  Shall 
I  get  some  of  the  boats  away,  sir?" 

CAPT.  HARDWICK — "Yes."  (Mason  starts 
astern.)  "Wait  a  moment.  I'm  coming  with  you. 
Come  on  Whitney.  You  can't  do  any  good  there 
any  longer."  (He  stops  in  front  of  Knapp  as  he 
walks  toward  the  stern.  Knapp  is  staring  at  the 
paper  in  his  hand  with  wild  eyes  and  pale,  twitching 
features.  Capt.  Hardwick  motions  to  him  to  follow 
them.  They  go  off  to  right.  Knapp  sits  still  with 
the  sheet  of  paper  in  his  hand.  The  creaking  of 
blocks  is  heard  and  -Mason's  voice  shouting  orders.) 

KNAPP — (In  a  hoarse  whisper.)  "God!  It's 
my  fault  then!  It's  my  fault!"  (He  staggers 
weakly  to  his  feet.)  "What  if  the  ship  is  lost!" 
(He  looks  astern  where  they  are  lowering  the  boats 
— his  face  is  convulsed  with  horror — he  gives  a  bit 
ter  cry  of  despair.)  "O-o-h!  They're  lowering  the 
boats!  She  is  lost!  She  is  lost!"  (He  stumbles 
across  the  dtck  into  the  wireless  room,  pulls  out  a 
drawer,  and  takes  out  a  revolver,  which  he  presses 
against  his  temple.)  "She  is  lost!"  (There  is  a 
sharp  report  and  Knapp  falls  f  ->-ward  on  his  face 
on  the  floor  before  his  instrument.  His  body 
twitches  for  a  moment,  then  is  still.  The  operator 
Whitney  comes  running  in  from  the  right  calling: 
" Knapp/  They're  waiting  for  you."  He  gives  one 


io4  WARNINGS 

horrified  glance  at  the,  body  in  the  room;  says 
"Good  GodT  in  a  stupified  tone,  and  then,  seized 
with  sudden  terror,  rushes  astern  again.) 

CURTAIN 


FOG 

A  PLAY  IN  ONE  ACT 
CHARACTERS 

A  Poet 

A  Man  of  Business 

A  Polish  Peasant  Woman 

A  Dead  Child 

The  Third  Officer  of  a  Steamer 

Sailors  from  the  Steamer 

Time— The  Present 


:  •  FOG  .  \:,-.K':.; 

life-boat  of  a  passenger  steamer  is  drifting 
helplessly  off  the  Grand  Banks  of  Newfoundland. 
A  dense  fog  lies  heavily  upon  the  still  sea.  There 
is  no  wind  and  the  long  swells  of  the  ocean  are  bare 
ly  perceptible.  The  surface  of  the  water  is  shadowy 
and  unreal  in  its  perfect  calmness.  A  menacing 
silence,  like  the  genius  of  the  fog,  broods  over  every 
thing. 

Three  figures  in  the  boat  are  darkly  outlined 
against  the  gray  background  of  vapor.  Two  are 
seated  close  together  on  the  thwarts  in  the  middle. 
The  other  is  huddled  stiffly  at  one  end.  None  of 
their  faces  can  be  distinguished. 

Day  is  just  about  to  break  and  as  the  action  pro- 
gresses  the  vague  twilight  of  dawn  creeps  over  the 
sea.  This,  in  turn,  is  succeeded  by  as  bright  a  sem 
blance  of  daylight  as  can  sift  through  the  thick 
screen  of  fog. 

A  MAN'S  VOICE — (Appallingly  brisk  and  breezy 
under  the  circumstances.)  "Birr!  I  wish  daylight 
would  come.  I'm  beginning  to  feel  pretty  chilly. 
How  about  you?"  (He  receives  no  answer  and 
raises  his  voice,  the  fear  of  solitude  suddenly  alive 

107 


io8  FOC 

within  him.)  "Hello  there!  You  haven't  gone  to 
sleep,  have  you  ?" 

ANOTHER  MAN'S  VOICE — (More  refined  than 
the  first,  clear  and  unobtrusively  melancholy.)  "No, 
I'm  not  asleep." 

FIRST  VOICE — ( Complacently  reassured. ) 
"Thought  you  might  have  dozed  off.  I  did  a  while 
ago — eyes  refused  to  stay  open  any  longer — couldn't 
imagine  where  I  was  when  I  woke  up — had  for 
gotten  all  about  the  damned  wreck." 

SECOND  VOICE — "You  are  fortunate  to  be  able 
to  sleep.  I  wish  I  could  go  to  sleep  and  forget — 
all  this—" 

FIRST  VOICE — "Oh  come  now!  You  mustn't 
keep  thinking  about  it.  That  won't  do  any  good. 
Brace  up!  We're  sure  to  get  out  of  this  mess  all 
right.  I've  figured  it  all  out.  You  know  how  long 
a  time  it  was  between  the  time  we  hit  the  derelict 
' — it  was  a  derelict  we  hit,  wasn't  it?" 

SECOND  VOICE — "I  believe  so." 

FIRST  VOICE— "Well,  the  wireless  was  going  all 
the  time,  if  you  remember,  and  one  of  the  officers 
told  me  we  had  lots  of  answers  from  ships  saying 
they  were  on  the  way  to  help  us.  One  of  them  is 
sure  to  pick  us  up." 

SECOND  VOICE — "In  this  fog?" 

FIRST  VOICE — "Oh  this'll  all  go  away  as  soon  as 
the  sun  goes  up.  I've  seen  plenty  like  it  at  my 


FOG  109 

country  place  on  the  Connecticut  shore,  maybe  not 
as  thick  as  this  one  but  nearly  as  bad,  and  when  the 
sun  came  up  they  always  disappeared  before  the 
morning  was  over." 

SECOND  VOICE — "You  forget  we  are  now  near 
the  Grand  Banks,  the  home  of  fog." 

FIRST  VOICE — (With  a  laugh  that  is  a  bit  trou 
bled.)  "I  must  say  you  aren't  a  very  cheerful  com 
panion.  Why  don't  you  look  at  the  bright  side?" 
(A  pause  during  which  he  is  evidently  thinking  over 
what  the  other  man  has  told  him.)  "The  Grand 
Banks?  Hmm,  well,  I  refuse  to  be  scared." 

THE  SECOND  VOICE — "I  have  no  intention  of 
making  our  situation  seem  worse  than  it  really  is. 
I  have  every  hope  that  we  will  eventually  be  res 
cued  but  it's  better  not  to  expect  too  much.  It  only 
makes  disappointment  more  bitter  when  it  comes." 

FIRST  VOICE — "I  suppose  you're  right  but  I  can't 
help  being  optimistic." 

SECOND  VOICE — "You  remember  how  downcast 
you  were  yesterday  when  we  failed  to  hear  any 
sound  of  a  ship  ?  Today  is  liable  to  be  the  same  un 
less  this  fog  lifts.  So  don't  hope  for  too  much." 

FIRST  VOICE — "Your're  forgetting  the  fact  that 
there  was  no  sun  yesterday.  That  kind  of  weather 
can't  last  forever." 

SECOND  VOICE — (Dryly.)  "Perhaps  we  could 
not  see  the  sun  on  account  of  the  fog." 


no  FOG 

FIRST  VOICE — (After  a  pause.)  "I'll  admit  I 
did  feel  pretty  dismal  yesterday — after  that  terrible 
thing  happened." 

SECOND  VOICE — (Softly.)  "You  mean  after  the 
child  died?" 

FIRST  VOICE — (Gloomily.)  "Yes.  I  thought 
that  woman  would  never  stop  crying.  Ugh!  It 
was  awful — her  cries,  and  the  fog,  and  not  another 
sound  anywhere." 

SECOND  VOICE — "It  was  the  most  horrible  thing 
I  have  ever  seen  or  even  heard  of.  I  never  dreamed 
anything  could  be  so  full  of  tragedy." 

FIRST  VOICE — "It  was  enough  to  give  anyone 
the  blues,  that's  sure.  Besides  my  clothes  were  wet 
and  I  was  freezing  cold  and  you  can  imagine  how 
merry  I  felt."  (Grumbling.)  "Not  that  they're 
any  dryer  now  but  somehow  I  feel  warmer." 

SECOND  VOICE — (After  a  long  pause.)  "So  you 
think  the  child's  death  was  a  terrible  thing?" 

FIRST  VOICE — (In  astonishment.)  "Of  course. 
Why?  Don't  you?" 

SECOND  VOICE— "No." 

FIRST  VOICE — "But  you  said  just  a  minute  ago 
that—" 

SECOND  VOICE — "I  was  speaking  of  the  grief  and 
despair  of  the  mother.  But  death  was  kind  to  the 
child.  It  saved  him  many  a  long  year  of  sordid 
drudgery." 


FOG 


FIRST  VOICE  —  "I  don't  knew  as  I  agree  with  you 
there.  Everyone  has  a  chance  in  this  world;  but 
we've  all  got  to  work  hard,  of  course.  That's  the 
way  I  figure  it  out." 

SECOND  VOICE  —  "What  chance  had  that  poor 
child?  Naturally  sickly  and  weak  from  underfeed 
ing,  transplanted  to  the  stinking  room  of  a  tene 
ment  or  the  filthy  hovel  of  a  mining  village,  what 
glowing  opportunities  did  life  hold  out  that  death 
should  not  be  regarded  as  a  blessing  for  him?  I 
mean  if  he  possessed  the  ordinary  amount  of  ability 
and  intelligence  —  considering  him  as  the  average 
child  of  ignorant  Polish  immigrants.  Surely  his 
prospects  of  ever  becoming  anything  but  a  beast 
of  burden  were  not  bright,  were  they?" 

FIRST  VOICE  —  "Well,  no,  of  course  not,  but  —  " 

SECOND  VOICE  —  "If  you  could  bring  him  back 
to  life  would  you  do  so?  Could  you  conscientious 
ly  drag  him  away  from  that  fine  sleep  of  his  to  face 
what  he  would  have  to  face?  Leaving  the  joy 
you  would  give  his  mother  out  of  the  question, 
would  you  do  it  for  him  individually?" 

FIRST  VOICE  —  (Doubtfully.)  "Perhaps  not, 
looking  at  it  from  that  standpoint." 

SECOND  VOICE  —  "There  is  no  other  standpoint. 
The  child  was  diseased  at  birth,  stricken  with  a 
hereditary,  ill  that  only  the  most  vital  men  are  able 
to  shake  off." 


H2  FOG 

FIRST  VOICE— "You  mean?" 

SECOND  VOICE — "I  mean  poverty — the  mo* 
deadly  and  prevalent  of  all  diseases." 

FIRST  VOICE—  (Amused.)  "Oh,  that's  it,  eh? 
Well,  it  seems  to  be  a  pretty  necessary  sickness  and 
you'll  hardly  find  a  cure  for  it.  I  see  you're  a  bit 
of  a  reformer." 

SECOND  VOICE — "Oh  no.  But  there  are  times 
when  the  frightful  injustice  of  it  all  sickens  me  with 
life  in  general." 

FIRST  VOICE — "I  find  life  pretty  good.  I  don't 
know  as  I'd  change  it  even  if  I  could." 

SECOND  VOICE — "Spoken  like  a  successful  man. 
For  I'm  sure  you  are  a  successful  man,  are  you  not? 
I  mean  in  a  worldly  way." 

FIRST  VOICE — (Flattered.)  "Yes,  you  might 
call  me  so,  I  guess.  I've  made  my  little  pile  but  it 
was  no  easy  time  getting  it,  let  me  tell  you." 

SECOND  VOICE — "You  had  some  advantages,  did 
you  not  ?  Education  and  plenty  to  eat,  and  a  clean 
home,  and  so  forth?" 

FIRST  VOICE — "I  went  to  high  school  and  of 
course  had  the  other  things  you  mentioned.  My 
people  were  not  exactly  what  you  could  call  poor 
but  they  were  certainly  not  rich.  Why  do  you  ask?" 

SECOND  VOICE — "Do  you  think  you  would  be  as 
successful  and  satisfied  with  life  if  you  had  started 
with  handicaps  like  those  which  that  poor  dead  child 


FOG  113 

would  have  had  to  contend  with  if  he  had  lived?" 

FIRST  VOICE — (Impatiently.)  "Oh,  I  don't  know! 
What's  the  use  of  talking  about  what  might  have 
happened  ?  I'm  not  responsible  for  the  way  the 
world  is  run." 

SECOND  VOICE — "But  supposing  you  are  respon 
sible?" 

FIRST  VoiCB-^-"What!" 

SECOND  VOICE — "I  mean  supposing  we — the  self- 
satisfied,  successful  members  of  society — are  respon 
sible  for  the  injustice  visited  upon  the  heads  of  our 
less  fortunate  'brothers-in-Christ'  because  of  our 
shameful  indifference  to  it.  We  see  misery  all 
around  us  and  we  do  not  care.  We  do  nothing  to 
prevent  it.  Are  we  not  then,  in  part  at  least,  re 
sponsible  for  it?  Have  you  ever  thought  of  that?" 

FIRST  VOICE — (In  tones  of  annoyance.)  "No, 
and  I'm  not  going  to  start  in  thinking  about  it 


now." 


SECOND  VOICE — (Quietly.)  "I  see.  It's  a  case 
of  what  is  Hecuba  to  you  that  you  should  weep 
for  her." 

FIRST  VOICE—  (Blankly.)  "Hecuba?  Oh,  you 
mean  the  woman.  You  can't  accuse  me  of  any 
heartlessness  there.  I  never  felt  so  sorry  for  anyone 
in  my  life.  Why  I  was  actually  crying  myself  at 
one  time  I  felt  so  sorry  for  her.  By  the  way,  she 
hasn't  made  a  sound  since  it  got  dark  last  evening. 


FOG 

Is  she  asleep?  Can  you  see  her?  You're  nearei 
to  her  than  I  am." 

(//  if  becoming  gradually  lighter  although  the 
fog  is  as  thick  as  ever.  The  faces  of  the  two  men 
in  the  boat  can  be  dimly  distinguished — one  round, 
jowly,  and  clean-shaven;  the  other  oval  with  big 
dark  eyes  and  a  black  mustache  and  black  hair  push 
ed  back  from  his  high  forehead.  The  huddled  fig 
ure  at  the  end  of  the  boat  is  clearly  that  of  a  woman. 
One  arm  is  flung  over  her  face  concealing  it.  In 
the  other  she  clutches  something  like  a  bundle  of 
white  clothes.) 

THE  DARK  MAN— (He  of  the  Second  Voice 
who  is  seated  on  the  thwart  nearer  to  the  woman 
— turning  round  and  peering  in  her  direction.)  "She 
is  very  still.  She  must  be  asleep.  I  hope  so,  poor 
woman !" 

THE  OTHER  MAN — "Yes,  a  little  sleep  will  do 
her  a  world  of  good." 

THE  DARK  MAN— "She  still  holds  the  body  of 
the  child  close  to  her  breast."  (He  returns  to  his 
former  position  facing  the  Other  Man.)  "I  sup 
pose  you — " 

THE  OTHER  MAN — (Exultingly.)  "Excuse  my 
interrupting  you  but  have  you  noticed  how  light  it's 
getting?  It  didn't  strike  me  until  you  turned  around 
just  now.  I  can  see  your  face  plainly  and  a  few 
minutes  ago  I  couldn't  tell  whether  you  were  a 


FOG  tfj 

blond  or  brunette." 

THE  DARK  MAN — "Now  if  this  fog  would  only 
lift—" 

THE  OTHER  MAN — "It's  going  to  lift.  You 
wait  and  see.  You'll  find  my  optimism  is  justified. 
But  what  was  it  you  started  to  say?" 

THE  DARK  MAN — "I  was  saying  that  I  sup 
posed  you  had  never  seen  this  woman  on  board." 

THE  OTHER  MAN — "No.  I  was  in  the  smok 
ing  room  playing  Abridge  most  of  the  time.  I'm  not 
much  of  a  sailor — don't  care  mucfi  about  the  water 
— just  went  over  to  Europe  because  the  wife  and 
the  girls  insisted.  I  was  bored  to  death — made  an 
excuse  to  get  away  as  soon  as  I  could.  No  sir,  you 
can't  teach  an  old  dog  new  tricks.  I'm  a  business 
man  pure  and  simple  and  the  farther  I  get  away 
from  that  business  the  more  dissatisfied  I  am.  I've 
built  that  business  up  from  nothing  and  it's  sort 
of  like  a  child  of  mine.  It  gives  me  pleasure  to 
watch  over  it  and  when  I'm  away  I'm  uneasy.  I 
don't  like  to  leave  it  in  strange  hands.  As  foi 
travelling,  little  old  New  York  in  the  U.  S.  A.  is 
good  enough  for  me."  (He  pauses  impressively, 
waiting  for  some  word  of  approval  for  his  sterling 
patriotic  principles.  The  Dark  Man  is  silent  and 
he  of  the  U.  S.  A.  continues,  a  bit  disconcerted.) 
"But  you  asked  me  if  I  had  seen  the  woman.  I 
don't  think  so  because  I  never  went  down  into  the 


u6  FOG 

steerage.  I  know  some  of  the  first  class  passengers 
did  but  I  wasn't  curious.  It's  a  filthy  sort  of  hole, 
isn't  it?" 

THE  DARK  MAN— "It's  not  so  bad.  I  spent 
quite  a  good  deal  of  my  time  down  there." 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN — (For  he  of  the  jowly, 
fat  face  and  the  bald  spot  is  such  by  his  own  con 
fession.)  (Chuckling.)  "In  your  role  of  reform 
er?" 

THE  DARK  MAN — "No.  Simply  because  I 
found  the  people  in  the  steerage  more  interesting  to 
talk  to  than  the  second  class  passengers.  I  am  not 
a  reformer — at  least  not  in  the  professional  sense." 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN — "Do  you  mind  my  ask 
ing  what  particular  line  you  are  in  ?" 

THE  DARK  MAN— -"I  am  a  writer." 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN — "I  thought  it  was  some 
thing  of  the  kind.  I  knew  you  weren't  in  business 
when  I  heard  those  Socialistic  ideas  of  yours." 
(Condescendingly.)  "Beautiful  idea — Socialism — 
but  too  impractical — never  come  about — just  a 
dream." 

THE  DARK  MAN — "I'm  not  a  Socialist— es 
pecially— just  a  humanist,  that  is  all." 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN — "What  particular  kind 
of  writing  do  you  do?" 

THE  DARK  MAN — "I  write  poetry." 

THE   BUSINESS   MAN — (In   a   tone  indicating 


FOG  117 

that  in  his  mind  poets  and  harmless  lunatics  have 
more  than  one  point  in  common.)  "Oh  I  sec.  Well, 
there's  not  much  money  in  that,  is  there?" 

THE  POET— "No." 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN — (After  a  long  pause.) 
"I  don't  know  about  you  but  I'm  beginning  to  feel 
hungry.  Is  that  box  of  crackers  near  you?"  (The 
Poet  reaches  in  under  a  thwart  and  pulls  out  a  box 
of  sea-biscuits.  The  Business  Man  takes  a  hand 
ful  and  munches  greedily.)  "Never  thought  hard 
tack  could  taste  so  good.  Aren't  you  going  to  have 
any?" 

THE  POET — "No.  I  am  not  hungry.  The  thought 
of  that  poor  woman  takes  all  my  hunger  away.  I 
used  to  watch  her  every  day  down  in  the  steerage 
playing  with  her  little  son  who  is  now  dead.  I 
think  he  must  have  been  the  only  child  she  ever  had, 
the  look  on  her  face  was  so  wonderfully  tender  as 
she  bent  over  him.  What  will  her  life  be  now  that 
death  has  robbed  her  of  the  only  recompense  for  her 
slavery  ?  It  seems  such  needless  cruelty.  Why  was 
I  not  taken  instead? — I,  who  have  no  family  or 
friends  to  weep,  and  am  not  afraid  to  die." 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN— -(His  mouth  full.)  "You 
take  things  to  heart  too  much.  That's  just  like  a 
poet.  She'll  forget  all  about  it — probably  sooner 
than  you  will.  One  forgets  everything  in  time. 
What  a  devil  of  a  world  it  would  be  if  we  didn't." 


ji8  FOG 

(He  takes  another  handful  of  sea-biscuits  and  con 
tinues  his  munching.  The  Poet  turns  away  from 
him  in  disgust.)  "Funny  thing  when  you  come 
to  think  of  it — I  mean  how  we  happened  to  come 
together  in  this  boat.  It's  a  mystery  to  me  how  she 
ever  got  in  here.  And  then,  how  is  it  there's  no 
oars  in  this  boat  and  still  there's  plenty  of  food  ? 
You  remember  there  was  no  lack  of  life-boats,  and 
after  the  women  and  children  were  taken  off  I  was 
ordered  into  one  and  we  were  rowed  away.  The 
damned  thing  must  have  gotten  smashed  somehow 
for  it  leaked  like  a  sieve  and  in  spite  of  our  bailing 
we  were  soon  dumped  in  the  water.  I  heard  the 
noise  of  voices  near  us  and  tried  to  swim  to  one  of 
the  other  boats,  but  I  must  have  got  twisted  in  the 
fog  for  when  I  did  find  a  boat — and  let  me  tell 
you  I  was  pretty  nearly  'all  in'  about  then — it  was 
this  one  and  you  and  she  were  in  it.  Now  what  I 
want  to  know  is — " 

THE  POET — "It  is  easily  explained.  Did  you 
ever  become  so  sick  of  disappointment  and  weary  of 
life  in  general  that  death  appeared  to  you  the  only 
way  out?" 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN — "Hardly.  But  what  has 
that  to  do — " 

THE  POET — "Listen  and  you  will  see.  That  is 
the  way  I  felt — sick  and  weary  of  soul  and  longing 
for  sleep.  When  the  ship  struck  the  derelict  it 


FOG  119 

seemed,  to  me  providential.  Here  was  the  solution 
I  had  been  looking  for.  I  would  go  down  with  the 
ship  and  that  small  part  of  the  world  which  knew 
me  would  think  my  death  an  accident.1' 
r  THE  BUSINESS  MAN — (Forgetting  to  eat  in  his 
amazement.)  "You  mean  to  say  you  were  going 
to  commit — " 

THE  POET — "I  was  going  to  die,  yes.  So  I  hid 
in  the  steerage  fearing  that  some  of  the  ship's  of 
ficers  would  insist  on  saving  my  life  in  spite  ol  me. 
Finally  when  everyone  had  gone  I  came  out  and 
walked  around  the  main  deck.  I  heard  the  sound 
of  voices  come  from  a  dark  corner  and  discovered 
that  this  woman  and  her  child  had  been  left  behind. 
How  that  happened  I  don't  know.  Probably  she 
hid  because  she  was  afraid  the  child  would  be  crush 
ed  by  the  terror-stricken  immigrants.  At  any  rate 
there  she  was  and  I  decided  she  was  so  happy  in  her 
love  for  her  child  that  it  would  be  wrong  to  let  her 
die.  I  looked  around  and  found  this  life-boat  had 
been  lowered  down  to  the  main  deck  and  left  hang 
ing  there.  The  oars  had  been  taken  out — probably 
for  extra  rowers  in  some  other  boat.  I  persuaded 
the  woman  to  climb  in  and  then  went  up  to  the  boat 
deck  and  lowered  the  boat  the  rest  of  the  way  to  the 
water.  This  was  not  much  of  a  task  for  the  steam 
er  was  settling  lower  in  the  water  every  minute.  I 
then  slid  down  one  of  the  ropes  to  the  boat  and 


120  FOG 

cutting  both  of  the  lines  that  held  her,  pushed  off. 
There  was  a  faint  breeze  which  blew  us  slowly 
away  from  the  sinking  ship  until  she  was  hidden  in 
the  fog.  The  suspense  of  waiting  for  her  to  go 
down  was  terrible.  Even  as  it  was  we  were  nearly 
swamped  by  the  waves  when  the  steamer  took  her 
final  plunge." 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN — (Edges  away  from  the 
Poet,  firmly  convinced  that  his  convictions  regard 
ing  the  similarity  of  poets  and  madmen  are  based 
upon  fact.)  "I  hope  you've  abandoned  that  suicide 
idea." 

THE  POET — "I  have  — absolutely.  I  think  all 
that  happened  to  me  is  an  omen  sent  by  the  Gods 
to  convince  me  my  past  unhappiness  is  past  and 
my  fortune  will  change  for  the  better." 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN — "That's  the  way  to  talk! 
Superstition  is  a  good  thing  sometimes." 

THE  POET — "But  if  I  had  known  the  sufferings 
that  poor  woman  was  to  undergo  as  a  result  of  my 
reckless  life-saving  I  would  have  let  her  go  down 
with  the  ship  and  gone  myself." 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN — "Don't  think  of  it  any 
longer.  You  couldn't  help  that.  I  wonder  what  it 
was  the  child  died  of  ?  I  thought  it  was  asleep  when 
I  heard  it  choke  and  cough — and  the  next  minute 
she  commenced  to  scream.  I  won't  forget  those 
screams  for  the  rest  of  my  life." 


FOG  121 

THE  POET— "The  child  was  naturally  frail  and 
delicate  and  I  suppose  the  fright  he  received  and 
the  exposure  combined  to  bring  on  some  kind  of 
convulsion.  He  was  dead  when  I  went  over  to  see 
what  was  the  matter." 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN — (Peering  upward  through 
the  fog.)  "It's  getting  considerably  lighter.  It 
must  be  about  time  for  the  sun  to  rise — if  we're 
going  to  have  any  sun." 

THE  POET — (Sadly.)  "It  was  just  about  this 
time  yesterday  morning  when  the  poor  little  fellow 
died." 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN — (Looks  apprehensively 
toward  the  huddled  figure  in  the  end  of  the  boat. 
Now  that  it  is  lighter  what  appeared  before  like  a 
bundle  of  white  clothes  can  be  seen  to  be  a  child 
four  or  five  years  old  with  a  thin,  sallow  face  and 
long,  black  curls.  The  body  is  rigid,  wrapped  in 
a  white  shawl,  and  the  eyes  are  open  and  glassy.) 
"Let's  not  talk  any  more  about  it.  She  might  wake 
up  and  start  screaming  again — and  I  can't  stand 
that." 

THE  POET — "She  does  not  understand  English." 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN — (Shaking  his  head.) 
"She'd  know  we  were  talking  about  the  kid  just  the 
same.  Mothers  have  an  instinct  when  it  comes  to 
that.  I've  seen  that  proved  in  my  own  family  more 
than  once." 


122  FOG 

THE  POET — "Have  you  ever  lost  any  of  your 
children?'1 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN— -"No.    Than)c  God  TV 

THE  POET — "You  may  well  thank  God,  even  if 
people  do,  as  you  claimed  a  while  ago,  forget  so 
easily." 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN — "You're  not  married,  are 
you?" 

THE  POET— "No." 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN — "I  didn't  think  you 
were."  (Jocularly.)  "You  people  with  artistic 
temperaments  run  more  to  affinities  than  to  wives. 
J  suppose  you've  lots  of  those?" 

THE  POET — (Does  not  hear  or  will  not  notice 
this  question.  He  is  staring  through  the  fog  and 
speaks  in  excited  tones.)  "Did  you  hear  that?" 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN — "Hear  what?" 

THE  POET — "Just  now  when  you  were  talking. 
I  thought  I  heard  a  sound  like  a  steamer's  whistle." 
(They  both  listen  intently.  After  a  second  or  so 
the  sound  comes  again,  faint  and  far-off,  wailing 
over  the  water.) 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN— (Jfi7<//y  elated.)  "By 
God,  it  is  a  steamer!" 

THE  POET — "It  sounded  nearer  that  time.  She 
must  be  coming  this  way." 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN— Oh,  if  only  this  rotten 
fog  would  lift  for  a  minute!" 


FOG  123 

THE  POBT — "Let's  .hope  it  will.  We  run  as 
much  risk  of  being  run  down  as  we  do  of  being 
saved  while  this  continues.  They  couldn't  see  us 
twenty  feet  away  in  this." 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN — (Nervously.)  "Can't 
we  yell  or  make  some  kind  of  a  noise?" 

THE  POET — "They  couldn't  hear  us  now.  We 
can  try  when  they  get  close  to  us."  (A  pause  dur 
ing  which  they  hear  the  steamer  whistle  again.) 
"How  cold  the  air  is!  Or  is  it  my  imagination ?" 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN — "No,  I  notice  it  too.  I've 
been  freezing  to  death  for  the  last  five  minutes.  I 
wish  we  had  the  oars  so  we  could  row  and  keep 


warm." 


THE  POET— "Sssh!    Do  you  hear  that?" 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN — "What?  The  whistle? 
I  heard  it  a  moment  ago." 

THE  POET — "No.  This  is  a  sound  like  running 
water.  There!  Don't  you  hear  it  now?"  (A 
noise  as  of  water  falling  over  rocks  comes  clearly 
through  the  fog.) 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN— "Yes,  I  hear  it.  What 
can  it  be?  There  isn't  any  water  out  here  except 
what's  under  us."  (With  a  shiver.)  "Brrr,  but 
it's  chilly!" 

THE  POET— -"That  poor  woman  will  be  frozen 
when  she  wakes  up."  (He  takes  off  his  ulster  and 
walking  carefully  to  the  end  of  the  boat  covers  the 


124  FOG 

form  of  the  sleeping  woman  with  it.) 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN — "It  sounds  louder  every 
minute  but  I  can't  see  anything.  Damn  this  fog!" 
(The  noise  of  the  falling  water  grows  more  and 
more  distinct.  At  regular  intervals  the  steamer's 
whistle  blows  and  that,  too,  seems  to  be 'drawing 
nearer. ) 

THE  POET — (Still  bent  over  the  sleeping  wom 
an.)  "Perhaps  it  may  be  land  but  I  hardly  think 
we  could  have  drifted  that  far." 

THE    BUSINESS    MAN — (In    terrified    tones.) 
"Good  God,  what's  that?"  (The  Poet  turns  quick 
ly  around.     Something  huge  and  white  is  looming 
up  through  the  fog  directly  beside  the  boat.     The   </ 
boat  drifts  up  to  it  sideways  and  strikes  against  it    , .-. 
with  a  slight  jar.     The  Business  Man  shrinks  away  r  ' 
as  far  along  the  thwart  as  he  can  get,  causing  the 
boat  to   tip  a  little  to   one  side.      The  spattering 
splash    of   falling   water   sounds   from   all   around 
them.) 

THE  POET — (Looking  at  the  white  mass  tower 
ing  above  them.)  "An  iceberg!"  (Turning  to  the 
Business  Man.)  "Steady  there!  You  will  be  in 
the  water  in  a  minute  if  you're  not  careful.  There 
is  nothing  to  be  frightened  over.  Lucky  for  us  it's 
calm  or  we  would  be  smashed  to  pieces." 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN — (Reassured  by  finding 
out  that  what  he  took  for  some  horrible  phantom 


FOG  125 

of  the  sea  is  an  ice  and  water  reality,  moves  over  to 
the  center  of  his  thwart  and  remarks  sarcastically.) 
"As  it  is  we'll  only  freeze  to  death.  Is  that  what 
you  mean?" 

THE  POET — (Thumping  his  hands  against  his 
sides.)  "It  is  cold.  I  wonder  how  big  the  berg 
is.  Help  me  try  to  push  the  boat  away  from  it." 
(They  push  again*  i  the  side  of  the  berg.  The  boat 
moves  away  a  little  but  drifts  right  back  again.) 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN — "Ouch!  My  hands  are 
freezing." 

THE  POET — "No  use  wasting  effort  on  that. 
The  boat  is  too  heavy  and  you  can  get  no  grip  on 
the  ice."  (A  blast  of  the  steamer  s  whistle  shrills 
thro'  the  fog.  It  sounds  very  close  to  them.)  "Oh 
God,  I  never  thought  of  that."  (He  sits  down  de 
jectedly  opposite  the  Business  Man.) 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN — "Never  thought  of 
what?" 

THE  POET — (Excitedly.)  "The  steamer,  man, 
the  steamer!  Think  of  the  danger  she  is  in.  If 
she(  were  ever  to  hit  this  mass  of  ice  she  would  sink 
before  they  could  lower  a  boat." 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN — "Can't  we  do  something ? 
We'll  yell  to  them  when  they  get  nearer." 

THE  POET — "Oh  my  God,  man,  don't  do  that. 
This  may  be  one  of  the  rescue  ships  come  to  pick  up 
the  survivors  from  our  boat,  and  if  they  heard  any 


126  FOG 

shouts  they  would  think  they  were  cries  for  help 
and  come  right  in  this  direction.  Not  a  sound  if 
you  have  any  regard  for  the  lives  of  those  on  board." 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN— -(Almost  whimpering.) 
"But  if  we  don't  let  them  know  we're  here  they  are 
liable  to  pass  by  us  and  never  know  it." 

THE  POET — (Sternly.)  "We  can  die  but  we 
cannot  risk  the  lives  of  others  to  save  our  own." 
(The  Business  Man  does  not  reply  to  this  but  a 
look  of  sullen  stubborness  comes  over  his  face.  There 
is  a  long  pause.  The  silence  is  suddenly  shattered 
by  a  deafening  blast  from  the  steamer's  whistle.) 

THE  POET — "God!  She  must  be  right  on  top 
of  us."  (They  both  start  to  their  feet  and  stand 
straining  their  eyes  to  catch  some  glimpse  of  the 
approaching  vessel  through  the  blinding  mist.  The 
stillness  is  so  intense  that  the  throb  of  the  engines 
can  be  plainly  heard.  This  sound  slowly  recedes 
and  the  next  whistle  indicates  by  its  lack  of  volume 
that  the  steamer  has  passed  and  is  proceeding  on  her 
way.) 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN — (Furiously.)  "She's  go 
ing  away.  I'm  not  going  to  be  left  here  to  die  on 
account  of  your  damn  fool  ideas."  (He  turns  in 
,r  direction  he  supposes  the  steamer  to  be  and 
tatses  his  hands  to  his  mouth,  shaping  them  like  a 
megaphone.) 

THE  POET — (Jumping  over  and  forcing  his  hand 


FOG  127 

over  the  Business  Man's  mouth  in  time  to  stifle  his 
call  for  help.)  "You  damned  coward!  I  might 
avc  known  what  to  expect."  (  The  Business  Man 
struggles  to  free  himself ',  rocking  the  boat  from  side 
to  side  with  his  futile  twisting*,  but  he  is  finally 
forced  down  to  a  sitting  position  on  the  thwart. 
The  Poet  then  releases  him.  He  opens  his  mouth  as 
if  to  shout  but  the  Poet  stands  over  him  with  his 
right  fist  drawn  back  threateningly  and  the  Busi 
ness  Man  thinks  better  of  it.) 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN—  (Snarling.)  "I'll  get 
even  with  you,  you  loafejr,  if  we  ever  get  on  shore." 
(The  Poet  pays  no  attention  to  this  threat  but  sits 
down  opposite  him.  They  hear  the  whistle  again, 
seemingly  no  farther  away  then  before.  The  Busi 
ness  Man  stirs  uneasily.  A  rending,  tearing  crash 
cracks  through  the  silence,  followed  a  moment  later 
by  a  tremendous  splash.  Great  drops  of  water  fall 
in  the  rocking  boat.) 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN — (Trembling  with  ter 
ror.)  "She  must  have  hit  it  after  all." 

THE  POET— "No.  That  can't  be  it.  I  don't 
hear  any  shouts."  (Suddenly  smiling  with  relief 
as  he  guesses  what  has  happened.)  "I  know  what 
it  is.  The  berg  is  melting  and  breaking  up.  That 
was  a  piece  that  fell  in  the  water." 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN — "It  almost  landed  on  us." 
(He  becomes  panic-stricken  at  this  thought  and 


128  FOG 

jumps  to  his  feet.)  "I'm  not  going  to  stand  this 
any  longer.  We'll  be  crushed  like  flies.  I'll  take 
a  chance  and  swim  for  it.  You  can  stay  here  and  be 
killed  if  you  want  to."  (Insane  with  fear  of  this 
new  menace  he  puts  one  foot  on  the  gunwale  of  the 
boat  and  is  about  to  throw  himself  into  the  water 
when  the  Poet  grabs  him  by  the  arm  and  pulls  him 
back.)  "Let  me  go!  This  is  all  right  for  you. 
You  want  to  die.  Do  you  want  to  kill  me  too,  you 
murderer?"  (He  hides  his  face  in  his  hands  and 
weeps  like  a  fat  child  in  a  fit  of  temper.) 

THE  POET — "You  fool!  You  could  not  swim 
for  five  minutes  in  this  icy  water."  (More  kindly.) 
"Come!  Be  sensible!  Act  like  a  man!"  (The 
Business  Man  shakes  with  a  combination  of  sigh 
and  sob.  The  whistle  blows  again  and  seems  once 
more  to  be  in  their  immediate  vicinity.  The  Busi 
ness  Man  takes  a  new  lease  on  life  at  this  favorable 
sign  and  raises  his  head.) 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN — "She  seems  to  be  getting 
quite  near  us  again." 

THE  POET — "Yes,  and  a  moment  ago  I  heard 
something  like  oars  creaking  in  the  oar-locks  and 
striking  the  water." 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN— -(hopefully.)  "Maybe 
they've  lowered  a  boat."  (Even  as  he  is  speaking 
the  curtain  of  fog  suddenly  lifts.  The  sun  has  just 
risen  over  the  horizon  rim  and  the  berg  behind  themt 


FOG  129 

its  surface  carved  and  fretted  by  the  streams  of  wa 
ter  from  the  melting  ice,  its  whiteness  vivid  above 
the  blue-gray  water,  seems  like  the  facade  of  some 
huge,  YMtL&Umple. ) 

THE  POET — (He  and  the  Business  Man,  their 
backs  turned  to  the  berg,  are  looking  at  something 
over  the  water  as  if  they  could  hardly  believe  their 
good  fortune.)  "There's  the  steamer  now  and  she 
can  hardly  be  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away. 
What  luck!" 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN — "And  there's  the  boat 
you  heard.  Look!  They  were  rowing  straight  to 
wards  us." 

THE  POET — (Half  to  himself  with  a  puzzled  ex 
pression.)  "I  wonder  how  they  knew  we  were  here." 

A  VOICE  FROM  OVER  THE  WATER — "Hello 
there!" 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN — (Waving  frantically.) 
"Hello!" 

THE  VOICE — (Nearer — the  creak  of  the  oars' 
can  be  clearly  heard.)  "Are  you  people  off  the 
'Starland?'" 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN— "Yes."  (With  the  re 
turn  of  his  courage  he  has  regained  all  his  self-assur 
ed  urbanity.  He  tries  to  pull  his  clothes  into  some 
semblance  of  their  former  immaculatenesst  and  his 
round  face  with  its  imposing  double  chin  assume* 
an  expression  of  importance.  The  Poet's  face  is 


130  FOG 

drawn  and  melancholy  as  if  he  were  uncertain  of 
the  outcome  of  this  unexpected  return  to  life.) 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN — (Turning  to  the  Poet 
with  a  smile.)  "You  sec  my  optimism  was  justified 
after  all."  (Growing  confused  before  the  Poet's 
steady  glance.)  "I  wish  you'd — er — forget  all 
about  the  little  unpleasantness  between  us.  I  must 
confess  I  was  a  bit — er — rattled  and  didn't  exactly 
know  what  I  was  doing."  (He  holds  out  his  hand 
uncertainly.  The  Poet  takes  it  with  a  quiet  smile.) 

THE  POET — (Simply.)  "I  had  forgotten  all 
about  it." 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN— "Thank  you."  (The 
voice  that  hailed  them  is  heard  giving  some  orders. 
The  sound  of  the  oars  ceases  and  a  moment  later  a 
life-boat  similar  to  the  one  they  are  in  but  manned 
by  a  full  crew  of  sailors  comes  along  side  of  them.  A 
young  man  in  uniform,  evidently  the  third  officer 
of  the  ship,  is  in  the  stern  steering.) 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN— (Breezily.)  "Hello! 
You  certainly  are  a  welcome  sight." 

THE  OFFICER — (Looking  up  at  the  towering 
side  of  the  berg.)  "You  picked  out  a  funny  is 
land  to  land  on.  What  made  you  cling  so  close  to 
this  berg?  Cold,  wasn't  it?" 

THE  POET — "We  drifted  into  it  in  the  fog  and 
having  no  oars  could  not  get  away.  It  was  about 
the  same  time  we  first  heard  your  whistle." 


FOG  131 

THB  OFFICER — (Nodding  toward  the  woman's 
figure.)  "Woman  sick?" 

THE  POET — "She  has  been  asleep,  poor  woman." 

THE  OFFICER— "Where's  the  kid?" 

THE  POET — "In  her  arms."  (Then  wondering- 
ly.)  "But  how  did  you  know? — " 

THE  OFFICER — "We'd  never  have  found  you 
but  for  that.  Why  didn't  you  give  us  a  shout  or 
make  some  kind  of  a  racket  ?" 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN — (Eagerly.)  "We  were 
afraid  you  would  come  in  our  direction  and  hit  this 
ice-berg.' 

THE  OFFICER — "But  we  might  have  passed  you 
and  never  had  an  inkling — " 

THE  BUSINESS  MAN — (Impressively.)  "In  a 
case  of  that  kind  one  has  to  take  chances."  ( The 
Poet  smiles  quietly.  The  Officer  looks  surprised.) 

THE  OFFICER — "That  was  very  fine  of  you  I 
must  say.  Most  people  would  only  have  thought 
of  themselves.  As  it  was,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the 
kid  crying  we  would  have  missed  you.  I  was  on  the 
bridge  with  the  first  officer.  We  had  been  warned 
about  this  berg  and  when  the  fog  came  up  we  slow 
ed  down  until  we  were  barely  creeping,  and  stopped 
altogether  every  now  and  then.  It  was  during  one 
of  these  stops  when  everything  was  still,  we  heard 
the  crying  and  I  said  to  the  first  officer:  'Sounds 
like  a  kid  balling,  doesn't  it?'  and  he  thought  it 


132  FOG 

did  too.  It  kept  getting  plainer  and  plainer  until 
there  was  no  chance  for  a  mistake — weird  too  it 
sounded  with  everything  so  quiet  and  the  fog  so 
heavy — I  said  to  him  again:  'It's  a  kid  sure  enough, 
but  how  in  the  devil  did  it  get  out  here  ?'  And  then 
we  both  remembered  we  had  been  ordered  to  keep 
a  lookout  for  any  of  the  survivors  of  the  'Starland* 
who  hadn't  been  picked  up  yet,  and  the  first  officer 
said:  'It's  probably  some  of  the  poor  devils  from 
the  Starland*  and  told  me  to  have  a  boat  lowered. 
I  grabbed  a  compass  and  jumped  in.  We  could 
hear  the  kid  crying  all  the  time,  couldn't  we,  boys?" 
(He  turns  to  the  crew  who  all  answer".  "Yes  sir") 
"That's  how  I  was  able  to  shape  such  a  direct  course 
for  you.  I  was  steering  by  the  sound.  It  stopped 
just  as  the  fog  rose."  (During  the  Officer's  story 
the  Business  Man  has  been  looking  at  him  with  an 
expression  of  annoyed  stupefaction  on  his  face.  He 
is  unable  to  decide  whether  the  Officer  is  fooling  or 
not  and  turtu  to  the  Poet  for  enlightenment.  But 
the  latter,  after  listening  to  the  Officer's  explana 
tion  with  intense  interest,  goes  quickly  to  the  side 
of  the  woman  and,  removing  his  ulster  from  over 
her  shoulders,  attempts  to  awaken  her.) 

THE  OFFICER — (Noticing  what  he  is  doing.) 
"That's  right.  Better  wake  her  up.  The  steamer 
will  be  ready  to  pick  us  up  in  a  minute,  and  she 
must  be  stiff  with  the  cold."  (He  turns  to  one  of 


FOG  133 

A  if  crew.)  "Make  a  line  fast  to  this  boat  and  we'll 
tow  her  back  to  the  ship."  (  The  sailor  springs  into 
the  "Starland's"  boat  with  a  coil  of  rope  in  his 
hand.) 

THE  POET — (Failing  to  awaken  the  woman  he 
feels  for  her  pulse  and  then  bends  down  to  listen 
for  a  heart  beat,  his  ear  against  her  breast.     He 
straightens  up  finally  and  stands  looking  down  at 
the  two  bodies  and  speaks  to  himself  half  aloud.) 
"Poor  happy  woman."     (The  Officer  and  the  Busi 
ness  Man  are  watching  him.) 
THE  OFFICER—  (Sharply.)     "Well?" 
THE  POET—  (Softly.)     "The  woman  is  dead." 
THE  BUSINESS  MAN— "Dead!"     (He  casts  a 
horrified  glance  at  the  still  figures  in  the  end  of  the 
boat — then   clambers   clumsily   into  the  other  boat 
and  stands  beside  the  officer.) 

THE  OFFICER— "Too  bad!  But  the  child  is  all 
right,  of  course?" 

THE  POET — "The  child  has  been  dead  for  twen 
ty-four  hours.  He  died  at  dawn  yesterday."  (It 
is  the  Officer's  turn  to  the  bewildered.  He  stares 
at  the  Poet  pityingly  and  then  turns  to  the  Busi 
ness  Man.) 

THE  OFFICER — (Indicating  the  Poet  with  a  nod 
of  his  head.)     "A  bit  out  of  his  head,  isn't  he?  Ex 
posure  affects  a  lot  of  them  that  way." 
THE  BUSINESS  MAN—  (Solemnly.)     "He  told 


134  FOG 

you  the  exact  truth  of  the  matter." 

THE  OFFICER — (Concluding  he  has  two  mad- 
men  to  deal  with  instead  of  one.)  "Of  course." 
(To  the  sailor  who  has  made  fast  the  towing  rope.) 
"All  fast?"  (The  sailor  jumps  into  his  own  boat 
with  a  brisk:  "Aye,  Aye  sir")  (The  Officer 
turns  to  the  Poet.)  "Coming  in  here  or  going  to 
stay  where  you  are?" 

THE  POET — (Gently.)  "I  think  I  will  stay  with 
the  dead."  (He  is  sitting  opposite  the  two  rigid 
figures  looking  at  their  still  white  faces  with  eyes 
full  of  a  great  longing.) 

THE  OFFICER—  (Mutters.)  "Cheerful  beggar!" 
(He  faces  the  crew.)  "Give  way  all."  (The  oars 
take  the  water  and  the  two  boats  glide  swiftly  away 
from  the  ice  berg. 

The  fresh  morning  breeze  ripples  over  the  water 
bringing  back  to  the  attentive  ear  some  words  of  the 
Man  of  Business  spoken  argumentatively,  but  in 
the  decided  accents  of  one  who  is  rarely  acknowl 
edged  to  be  wrong.) 

" — the  exact  truth.  So  you  see  that,  if  you  will 
pardon  my  saying  so,  Officer,  what  you  have  just 
finished  telling  us  is  almost  unbelievable." 

CURTAIN 


RECKLESSNESS 

A  PLAY  IN  ONE  ACT 

CHARACTERS 

Arthur  Baldwin 

Mildred — His  wife 

Fred  Burgess — Their  chauffeur 

Qene — Mrs.  Baldwins  maid 

Mary — A  housemaid 


RECKLESSNESS 

Scene — The  library  of  Arthur  Baldwins  sum 
mer  home  in  the  Catskills,  N.  Y.  On  the  left  a 
door  and  two  large  French  windows  opening  on 
the  veranda.  A  bookcase  covers  the  space  of  wall 
between  the  two  windows.  In  the  corner  is  a  square 
wicker-work  table.  The  far  side  of  the  room  also 
looks  out  on  the  veranda.  Two  French  windows 
are  on  each  side  of  a  rolltop  desk  that  stands  against 
the  wall.  Near  the  desk  a  small  telephone  such  as 
is  used  on  estates  to  connect  the  house  with  the 
outbuildings.  On  top  of  the  desk  a  Bell  telephone 
and  a  small  pile  of  letters.  In  the  right  background 
a  divan,  then  a  door  leading  to  the  hallway,  and  a 
long  bookcase.  A  heavy  oak  table  stands  in  the 
center  of  the  room.  On  it  are  several  magazines 
and  books,  an  ash  receiver,  cigar  box,  etc.,  and  an 
electric  reading  lamp  wired  from  the  chandelier 
above.  Two  Morris-chairs  are  within  reading  reach 
of  the  lamp  and  several  light  rocking  chairs  are 
placed  about  the  room.  The  walls  are  of  light 
wainscoting.  The  floor  is  of  polished  hard  wood 
with  a  large  darkish  colored  rug  covering  the  great 
er  part.  Several  pictures  of  a  sporting  nature,  prin- 

137 


i38  RECKLESSNESS 

cipally  of  racing  automobiles,  are  hung  on  the  walls 
in  the  spaces  between  windows  and  bookcases. 

The  room  is  the  typical  sitting-room  of  a  moder 
ately  wealthy  man  who  has  but  little  taste  and  is 
but  little  worried  by  its  absence.  On  this  warm 
August  night  with  the  door  and  all  the  windows 
thrown  open,  and  only  the  reading  lamp  burning,  it 
presents  a  cool  and  comfortable  appearance. 

It's  about  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening.  The  time 
is  the  present. 

Mrs.  Baldwin  is  discovered  lying  back  in  one  of 
the  Morris-chairs  with  an  unopened  book  in  her  lap. 
She  is  holding  her  head  on  one  side  in  an  attitude  of 
strained  attention  as  if  she  were  waiting  for  some 
one  or  something.  In  appearance  she  is  a  tail,  strik 
ingly  voluptuous-looking  young  woman  of  about 
twenty-eight.  Her  hair  is  reddish-gold,  almost  a 
red,  and  her  large  eyes  are  of  that  dark  greyish- 
blue  color  which  is  called  violet.  She  is  very  pale — 
a  clear  transparent  pallor  that  serves  to  accentuate 
the  crimson  of  the  full  lips  of  her  rather  large 
mouth.  She  is  dressed  in  a  low-cut  evening  gown 
of  a  grey  that  matches  her  eyes.  Her  shoulders, 
neck  and  arms  are  beautiful. 

MRS.  BALDWIN — (Rousing  herself  with  a  sigh 
of  vexation,  goes  to  the  wall  on  the  right  and  pushes 
an  electric  button  near  the  bookcase.  After  a  mo- 


RECKLESSNESS  139 

ment  a  maid  enters.)  "I  won't  wait  any  longer, 
Mary.  He  evidently  isn't  coming.  You  may  clear 
the  table.  I  won't  eat  anything  now.  I'll  have 
something  after  a  while." 

MARY — "Very  well,  ma'am."  (She  goes  out.) 
MRS.  BALDWIN — (Looks  around  quickly  to  make 
sure  she  is  alone,  then  locks  the  door  to  the  hallway 
and,  going  to  the  door  on  the  left  opening  on  the 
verandah,  calls  in  a  low  voice:)  "Fred."  (She 
beckons  with  her  hand  to  someone  who  is  evidently 
waiting  outside.  A  moment  later  Fred  Burgess 
comes  quickly  into  the  room.  He  throws  a  furtive 
glance  around  him — then  reassured,  takes  Mrs. 
Baldwin  in  his  arms  and  kisses  her  passionately  on 
the  lips.  In  appearance  he  is  a  tall,  clean-shaven, 
dark-complected  young  fellow  of  twenty-five  or  so 
with  clear-cut,  regular  features,  big  brown  eyes 
and  black  curly  hair.  He  is  dressed  in  a  gray  chauf 
feur's  uniform  with  black  puttees  around  the  calves 
of  his  legs.) 

MRS.  BALDWIN — (Putting  her  arms  about  his 
neck  and  kissing  him  again  and  again.)  "Oh  Fred! 
Fred!  I  love  you  so  much!" 

FRED — "Ssh!     Someone  might  hear  you." 

MRS.     BALDWIN — "There's     no     one     around. 

They're  all   in  back  having  dinner.     You've  had 

your's?"     (He   nods.)      "They   won't   expect  you 

then.     There's  nothing  to  fear.     I've  locked  the 


I4o  RECKLESSNESS 

door."  (He  is  reassured.)  "But  you  do  lov*  me, 
don't  you,  Fred?"  (He  kisses  her  smilingly.)  "Oh 
I  know !  I  know !  But  say  so !  I  love  to  hear  it." 

FRED — (Stroking  her  hair  caressingly  with  one 
hand.)  "Of  course  I  love  you.  You  kndw  I  do, 
Mildred."  (Mrs.  Baldwin  s  maid  Gene  appears 
noiselessly  in  the  doorway  from  the  verandah.  They 
are  looking  raptly  into  each  other  s  eyes  and  do  not 
notice  her.  She  glares  at  them  for  a  moment,  vin 
dictive  hatred  shining  in  her  black  eyes.  Then  she 
disappears  as  quietly  as  she  came.) 

MRS.  BALDWIN — (Brokenly.)  "I  can't  stand  this 
life  much  longer  Fred.  These  last  two  weeks  while 
he  has  been  away  have  been  heaven  to  me  but  when 
I  think  of  his  coming  back  tonight — I — I  could  kill 
him!" 

FRED — (Worried  by  this  sudden  outbreak.)  "You 
musn't  feel  so  badly  about  it.  You — we  have  got 
to  make  the  best  of  it,  that's  all." 

MRS.  BALDWIN — (Reproachfully.)  "You  take 
it  very  easily.  Think  of  me." 

FRED — (Releasing  her  and  walking  nervously  up 
and  down  the  room.)  "You  know,  Mildred,  I'd 
like  to  do  something.  But  how  can  I  help  matters? 
I  haven't  any  money.  We  can't  go  away  together 
yet." 

MRS.  BALDWIN — "But  I  can  get  money — all  the 
money  we  need." 


RECKLESSNESS  141 

FRED—  (Scornfully.)     "His  money!" 
MRS.  BALDWIN— "I  have  my  jewels.    I  can  selJ 
those.1' 

FRED— "He  gave  you  those  jewels." 
MRS.  BALDWIN — "Oh,  why  are  you  so  hard  on 
me?"     (She  sinks  down  in  one  of  the  Morris-chairs. 
He  comes  over  and  stands  before  her.)  "Why  won't 
you  let  me  help  a  little?" 

FRED— "I  don't  want  to  touch  any  of  his  money." 
(Kneeling  beside  her  he  puts  one  arm  around  her — 
then  with  sudden  passion.)  "I  want  you!  God, 
how  I  want  you!  But  I  can't  do  that!"  (He  leans 
over  and  kisses  her  bare  neck.  She  gives  a  long 
shuddering  gasp,  her  white  fingers  closing  and  un 
closing  in  his  dark  curls.  He  gets  suddenly  to  his 
feet.)  "We'll  have  to  wait  and  love  when  we  can 
for  awhile.  I  promise  you  it  won't  be  long.  I 
worked  my  way  this  far  and  I  don't  intend  to  stop 
here.  AS^OOJX^S  I've  passed  those  engineering  ex 
aminations — anth  1~  will- pass-  them — we'll  go  away 
together.  I  won't  be  anybody's  servant  then."  (He 
glances  down  at  his  livery  in  disgust.) 

MRS.  BALDWIN — (Pleading  tearfully.)  "Fred, 
dearest,  please  take  me  away  now — tonight — before 
he  comes.  What  difference  does  the  money  make  as 
long  as  I  have  you?" 

FRED — (With  a  harsh  laugh.)  "You  don't  know 
what  you're  talking  about.  You'd  never  stand  it. 


142  RECKLESSNESS 

Being  poor  doesn't  mean  anything  to  you.  You've 
never  been  poor.  Well,  I  have,  and  I  know.  It's 
hell,  that's  what  it  is.  You've  been  used  to  having 
everything,  and  when  you  found  out  you  ,were  tied 
to  a  servant  who  could  give  you  nothing,  you'd  soon 
get  tired.  And  I'd  be  the  last  one  to  blame  you 
for  it.  I'm  working  out  and  I  don't  want  to  go  back 
and  drag  you  with  me." 

MRS.  BALDWIN — "You  don't  realize  how  much 
I  love  you  or  you  wouldn't  talk  like  that.  I'd 
rather  die  of  starvation  with  you  than  live  the  way 
I'm  living  now." 

FRED — (Shaking  his  head  skeptically.)  "You 
don't  know  what  starvation  means.  Besides,  how 
do  yoju  know  he'll  get  a  divorce?  He  might  keep 
you  bound  to  him  in  name  for  years — just  for 
spite." 

MRS.  BALDWIN — "No.  I'm  sure  he  isn't  as  mean 
as  all  that.  To  do  him  justice  he's  been  kind  to 
me — in  his  way.  He  has  looked  upon  me  as  his 
plaything,  the  slave  of  his  pleasure,  a  pretty  toy  to 
be  exhibited  that  others  might  envy  him  his  owner 
ship.  But  he's  given  me  everything  I've  ever  asked 
for  without  a  word — more  than  I  ever  asked  for. 
He  hasn't  ever  known  what  the  word  'husband' 
ought  to  mean  but  he's  been  a  very  considerate  'own 
er.'  Let  us  give  him  credit  for  that.  I  don't 
think"—  (She  hesitates.) 


RECKLESSNESS  143 

FRED— "Go  on!  Go  on!  I  expect  to  hear  you 
love  him  next" 

MRS.  BALDWIN—  (Smiling.)  "Don't  misunder 
stand  me.  I  simply  can't  think  him  the  devil  in 
human  form  you  would  make  him  out  to  be." 
(Grimly.)  "I  love  him?  It  was  my  kind  parents 
who  loved  his  money.  He  is  so  much  older  than  I 
am  and  we  have  nothing  in  common.  Well,  I  sim 
ply  don't  love  him/ — there's  an  end  to  it  And  so — 
being  his  wife — I  hate  him!"  (Her  voice  is  like 
a  snarl  as  she  says  these  last  words — there  is  a 
pause.)  "But  what  is  your  plan?" 

FRED — "When  the  time  comes  I  shall  go  to  him 
frankly  and  tell  him  we  love  each  other.  I  shall 
offer  to  go  quietly  away  with  you  without  any  fuss 
or  scandal.  If  he's  the  man  you  think  him — and  I 
don't  agree  with  you  on  that  point — he'll  get  a  di 
vorce  so  secretly  it  will  never  even  get  into  the 
papers.  He'll  save  his  own  name  and  yours.  If  he 
tries  to  be  nasty  about  it  I  know  something  that'll 
bring  him  around."  (Mrs.  Baldwin  looks  at  him 
in  astonishment.)  "Oh,  I  haven't  been  idle.  His 
past  in  none  too  spotless." 

MRS.  BALDWIN — "What  have  you  found  out?" 

FRED — "I  can't  tell  you  now.  It's  got  nothing 
to  do  with  you  anyway.  It  was  a  business  deal." 

MRS.  BALDWIN — "A  business  deal?" 

FRED — "Yes.     It   happened   a  long  time   ago." 


144  RECKLESSNESS 

(Abruptly  changing  the  subject.)  "What  can  be 
keeping  him?  What  time  did  he  say  he'd  be  here?" 

MRS.  BALDWIN — "The  telegram  said  'for  din 
ner.'  "  (Suddenly  with  intense  feeling.)  "Oh,  if 
you  knew  the  agony  that  telegram  caused  me!  I 
knew  it  had  to  come  but  I  kept  hoping  against  hope 
that  something  would  detain  him.  After  the  wire 
came  and  I  knew  he  would  be  here,  I  kept  thinking 
of  how  he  would  claim  me — force  his  loathsome 
kisses  on  me."  (Fred  groans  in  impotent  rage.) 
"I  was  filled  with  horror.  That  is  why  I  asked  you 
to  take  me  away  tonight — to  save  me  that  degrada 
tion."  (After  a  pause — her  face  brightening  with 
hope.)  "It's  getting  late.  Maybe  he  won't  come 
after  all.  Fred,  dear,  we  may  have  one  more  night 
together."  (He  bends  over  and  kisses  her.  The 
faint  throb  of  a  powerful  motor  with  muffler  cut 
out  is  heard.  Fred  listens  for  a  moment — then  kisses 
Mrs.  Baldwin  hastily.) 

FRED — "There  he  is  now!  I  know  the  sound  of 
the  car."  (He  rushes  to  the  open  door  and  disap 
pears  in  the  darkness.) 

MRS.  BALDWIN — (Springing  tensely  to  her  feet, 
runs  over  and  unlocks  the  door  to  hall  and  opens 
it.)  "Oh  God!"  (The  noise  of  the  motor  sounds 
louder,  then  seems  to  grow  fainter,  and  suddenly 
ceases  altogether.)  "He's  gone  to  the  garage.  They're 
meeting.  Oh  God!"  (She  shrinks  away  from  the 


RECKLESSNESS  145 

door — then  remains  standing  stiffly  with  one  hand 
clenched  on  the  table.  Quick  footsteps  are  heard 
on  the  gravel,  then  on  the  steps  of  the  verandah. 
A  moment  later  Arthur  Baldwin  enters  from  the 
hall.  He  comes  quickly  over  to  her,  takes  both  of 
her  hands  and  kisses  her.  A  shudder  of  disgust 
runs  over  her  whole  body.) 

(Baldwin  is  a  stocky,  undersized  man  of  about 
fifty.  His  face  is  Puffy  and  marked  by  dissipation 
and  his  thick-lipped  mouth  seems  perpetually  curl 
ed  in  a  smile  of  cynical  scorn.  His  eyes  are  small 
with  heavily  drooping  lids  that  hide  their  expression. 
He  talks  softly  in  rather  a  bored  drawl  and  exhibits 
enthusiasm  on  but  two  subjects—*- his  racing  car  and 
his  wife — in  the  order  named.  He  has  on  a  motor 
ing  cap  with  goggles  on  it  and  a  linen  duster,  which 
he  takes  off  on  entering  the  room  and  throws  in  a 
chair.  He  is  rather  foppishly  dressed  in  a  perfectly 
fitting  dark  grey  suit  of  extreme  cut.) 

BALDWIN — (Holding  his  wife  at  arm's  length 
and  throwing  an  ardent  glance  at  her  bare  neck  and 
shoulders.)  "As  beautiful  as  ever  I  see.  Why  you're 
all  togged  out!"  (With  a  half -sneer.)  "Is  it  to 
welcome  the  prodigal  bridegroom?" 

MRS.  BALDWIN — (Forcing  a  smile.)  "Of 
course !" 

BALDWIN — "And  how  has  the  fairest  of  the  fair 
been  while  her  lord  has  been  on  the  broad  high- 


i46  RECKLESSNESS 

way?" 

MRS.  BALDWIN — "Very  well." 

BALDWIN — "Time  hang  heavily  on  your  hands 
in  this  rural  paradise?" 

MRS.  BALDWIN — (Nervously  avoiding  his  eyes.) 
"The  limousine  has  been  out  of  commission — Fred 
has  had  to  send  away  for  some  new  part  or  other. 
I  was  rather  glad  of  the  opportunity  to  rest  up  a 
bit.  You  know  when  you're  here  we're  always  on 
the  go.  How's  the  car?" 

BALDWIN—  (Enthusiastically.)  "Great!"  (He 
drops  her  hand  and  takes  cigar  out  of  box  on  table.) 
"I  made  eighty-six  about  a  week  ago."  (Lights 
cigar.)  "Ran  across  eight  straight  miles  of  level 
road — let  her  out  the  limit.  It's  some  car  all 
right!"  (His  enthusiasm  suddenly  vanishing — with 
a  frown.)  "By  the  way,  where's  Fred?" 

MRS.  BALDWIN—  (Startled.)  "Wasn't  he  at  the 
garage?" 

BALDWIN — "No.     No  one  was  there." 

MRS.  BALDWIN — "He  must  have  gone  to  dinner. 
We  had  all  given  you  up."  (Anxiously.)  "Why 
do  you  want  to  see  him?" 

BALDWIN — "Because  I  was  forgetting.  The  car 
isn't  all  right  just  now.  I  blew  out  a  tire  yesterday 
and  went  into  a  ditch — nothing  serious.  I  backed 
out  all  right  and  everything  seemed  to  be  O.  K. 
after  I'd  put  on  a  new  tire.  She  ran  smoothly  to- 


RECKLESSNESS  147 

day  until  I  hit  the  road  up  here  about  six  o'clock. 
That's  why  I'm  so  late — had  the  devil  of  a  time 
making  this  hill— or  mountain  I  should  say.  En 
gine  worked  fine  but  something  wrong  with  the 
steering  gear.  It  was  all  I  could  do  to  hold  the 
road — and  you  know  I'm  no  slouch  at  driving.  I 
nearly  ran  into  boulders  and  trees  innumerable.  All 
the  people  at  the  summer  camp  down  the  line  were 
looking  at  me — thought  I  was  drunk  I  guess.  I  had 
to  just  creep  up  here.  If  I'd  have  gone  fast  your 
hubby  would  be  draped  around  some  pine  tree  right 
now."  (With  a  laugh.)  "Sorry!  You'd  look  well 
in  black."  (Mrs.  Baldwin  starts  guiltily.)  "I 
think  I'll  have  to  have  this  house  moved  into  the 
valley.  It's  too  much  of  a  climb  and  the  roads  are 
devilish.  No  car,  even  if  it  has  ninety  horse  power 
can  stand  the  gaff  long.  I've  paid  enough  for  tires 
on  account  of  this  road  to  have  it  macadamized  ten 
times  over.  Eaten  yet?" 

MRS.  BALDWIN — "No.  I  wasn't  hungry  enough 
to  eat  alone.  I'll  have  something  light  later  on. 
And  you?" 

BALDWIN — "I  had  something  on  the  way — knew 
I'd  probably  be  too  late  up  here." 

MRS.  BALDWIN — "Shall  I  have  them  get  you 
anything?" 

BALDWIN — "No.     I'm  not  hungry." 

MRS.   BALDWIN — "Then   if  you  don't  mind   I 


148  RECKLESSNESS 

think  I'll  go  upstairs  and  take  of!  this  dress.  I'm 
rather  tired  tonight.  Til  be  with  you  again  in 
a  short  time." 

BALDWIN — "Why  the  formality  of  asking? 
Have  I  been  away  as  long  as  that?  Make  your 
self  comfortable,  of  course."  (With  his  cynical 
laugh.)  "I  have  only  to  humbly  thank  you  for 
going  to  all  this  trouble.  I  assure  you  I  appreciate 
it.  You  look  more  than  charming." 

MRS.  BALDWIN—  (With  a  cold  smile.)  "Thank 
you."  (Moving  toward  door.)  "You  will  find 
the  letters  I  did  not  forward  on  top  of  the  desk." 
(She  goes  out.) 

BALDWIN — (Going  to  desk  and  glancing  over 
the  letters.)  "Humph!  There's  nothing  much  here 
except  bills."  (He  throws  them  down  and  walks 
back  to  the  table  again.  Gene,  Mrs.  Baldwin  s 
maid  enters  from  the  hall  and  stands  just  inside 
the  doorway,  looking  quickly  around  the  room. 
Having  assured  herself  that  Baldwin  is  alone,  she 
comes  farther  into  the  room  and  waits  nervously 
for  him  to  speak  to  her.  She  is  a  slight,  pretty  young 
woman  of  twenty-one  or  so  neatly  dressed  in  a 
black  ladies-maid  costume.  Her  hair  and  eyes  are 
black,  her  features  small  and  regular,  her  com- 
plexion  dark.) 

BALDWIN — (Glancing  up  and  seeing  her.) 
"Why,  hello  Gene!  As  pretty  as  ever  I  see." 


RECKLESSNESS  149 

GENE — "Good  evening,  sir." 

BALDWIN — "Are  you  looking  for  Mrs.  Baldwin? 
She  just  went  upstairs  to  change  her  dress." 

GENE — "No,  sir.  I  just  left  Mrs.  Baldwin. 
She  said  she  wished  to  be  alone — that  I  was  to  tell 
you  she  had  a  headache  but  would  be  down  later 
if  she  felt  better.  (She  pauses  and  clasps  her  hands 
nervously  together.) 

BALDWIN — (Looking  at  her  curiously.)  "Any 
thing  you  wish  to  see  me  about?" 

GENE — (A  look  of  resolution  coming  into  her 
face.)  "Yes,  sir." 

BALDmx-r-(Half-bored.)  "All  right;  what  is 
it?  Oh,  by  the  way,  before  you  begin  can  you  tell 
me  if  Fred  has  gone  down  to  the  village  tonight  or 
not?" 

GENE — "I'm  quite  sure  he's  over  at  the  garage, 


sir." 


BALDWIN — "I  must  phone  to  him  about  fixing 

the  car — if  he  can.    Can't  use  it  the  way  it  is.   But 

what  is  it  that's  troubling  you?" 

GENE — "I  hardly  dare  to  tell  you,  sir." 
BALDWIN — "I  love  to  comfort  beauty  in  distress." 
GENE — "I  know  you'll  be  awful  angry  at  me 

when  you  hear  it." 

BALDWIN — "You  are  foolish  to  think  so.    It's  a 

love  affair,  of  course." 
GBNB— "Yes,  sir." 


150  RECKLESSNESS 

BALDWIN — "Well,  who  is  the  fortunate  party  and 
what  has  he  done  or  not  done?" 

GENE — "Oh  no,  you're  mistaken,  sir.  It  isn't 
my  love  affair.  It's  someone  else's." 

BALDWIN — (Impatiently.)  "You're  very  mysteri 
ous.  Whose  is  it  then?" 

GENE— "It's  Fred's  sir." 

BALDWIN — "But — I  had  rather  an  idea  that  you 
and  Fred  were  not  altogether  indifferent  to  each 
other."  (Sarcastically.)  "You  don't  mean  to  tell 
me  the  handsome  young  devil  has  jilted  you?" 

GENE — (Her  voice  harsh  with  anger.)  "He 
docs  not  love  me  any  more." 

BALDWIN — (Mockingly.)  "I  shall  have  to  chide      , 
him.     His  morals  arc  really   too  corrupt  for  his\ 
station  in  life.     My  only  advice  to  you  is  to  find 
another  sweetheart.     There  is  nothing  that  con 
soles  one  so  much  for  the  loss  of  a  lover  as — an 
other  lover." 

GENE — (Trembling  with  rage  at  his  banter.) 
"I  am  well  through  with  him.  It's  you  and  not 
me  who  ought  to  be  concerned  the  most  this  time." 

BALDWIN — (Frowning.)  "I?  And  pray  tell  me 
why  I  should  be  interested  in  the  amours  of  my 
chauffeur?" 

GENE — (A  bit  frightened.)  "There's  lots  of 
things  happened  since  you've  been  away." 

BALDWIN — (Irritably.)     "I  am  waiting  for  you 


RECKLESSNESS  151 

to  reveal  in  what  way  all  this  concerns  me." 

GENE — "They've  been  together  all  the  time 
you've  been  away — every  day  and"  (Hesitating  for 
a  moment  at  the  changed  look  on  his  face — then 
resolutely.)  "every  night  too."  (Vindictively.) 
"I've  watched  them  when  they  thought  no  one  was 
around.  I've  heard  their  'I  love  yous'  and  their 
kisses.  Oh,  they  thought  they  were  so  safe!  But 
I'll  teach  him  to  throw  me  over  the  way  he  did. 
I'll  pay  her  for  all  her  looking  down  on  me  and 
stealing  him  away.  She's  a  bad  woman,  is  what  I 
say !  Let  her  keep  to  her  husband  like  she  ought  to 
and  not  go  meddling  with  other  people — " 

BALDWIN — (Interrupting  her  in  a  coldf  hard 
voice  and  holding  himself  in  control  by  a  mighty 
effort.)  "It  isn't  one  of  the  servants?"  (Gene 
shakes  her  head.)  "No.  I  forget  you  said  she  was 
married.  One  of  the  summer  people  near  here?" 
(Gene  shakes  her  head.)  "Someone  in  this  house?" 
(Gene  nods.  Baldwins  body  grows  tense.  His 
heavy  lids  droop  over  his  eyes,  his  mouth  twitches. 
He  speaks  slowly  as  if  the  words  came  with  diffi 
culty.)  "Be  careful!  Think  what  you  are  saying! 
There  is  only  one  other  person  in  this  house.  Do — 
yOU — mean  to — say  it  is  that  person?"  (Gene  is 
too  terrified  to  reply.)  "Answer  me,  do  you  hear? 
Answer  me!  Is  that  the  person  you  refer  to?" 
GENE— •(/*  a  frightened  whisper.)  "Yes." 


152  RECKLESSNESS 

BALDWIN — (Springing  at  her  and  clutching  her 
by  the  throat  with  both  hands.)  "You  lie!  You 
lie!"  (He  forces  her  back  over  the  edge  of  the  table. 
She  frantically  tries  to  tear  his  hands  away.)  "Tell 
me  you  lie,  damn  you,  or  I'll  choke  you  to  hell!" 
(She  gasps  for  breath  and  her  face  becomes  a  dark 
crimson.  Baldwin  suddenly  realizes  what  he  if 
doing  and  takes  his  hands  away.  Gene  falls  half 
across  the  tablef  her  breath  coming  in  great  shud 
dering  sobs.  Baldwin  stands  silently  beside  her 
waiting  until  she  can  speak  again.  Finally  he  leads 
her  to  one  of  the  Morris-chairs  and  pushes  her  into 
it.  He  stands  directly  in  front  of  her.) 

BALDWIN — "You  can  speak  again?" 

GENE — (Weakly.)     "Yes — no  thanks  to  you." 

BALDWIN — "You  understand,  don't  you,  that 
what  you  have  said  requires  more  proof  than  the 
mere  statement  of  a  jealous  servant."  (He  pro 
nounces  the  "servant"  with  a  sneer  of  contempt.) 

GENE — "I've  got  proof,  don't  you  worry,  but 
I  don't  know  whether  I'll  show  it  to  you  or  not.  A 
man  that  chokes  women  deserves  to  be  made  a  fool 
of." 

BALDWIN — (Stung  by  her  scorn.)  "You  will 
show  me,  damn  you,  or — "  (He  leans  over  as  if  to 
grab  her  by  the  throat  again.) 

GENE — (Shrinking  back  in  the  chair.)  "Don't 
you  dare  touch  me  or  I'll  scream  and  tell  them 


RECKLESSNESS  153 

all  about  it.  I'll  prove  it  to  you,  but  it  isn't  because 
I'm  afraid  of  you  or  your  threats  but  simply  be 
cause  I  want  to  get  even  with  her."  (She  reaches 
in  under  her  belt  and  pulls  out  a .  closely  folded 
piece  of  paper.)  "Do  you  recognize  her  writing 
when  you  see  it?" 

BALDWIN — "Give  it  to  me." 

GENE — (Holding  it  away  from  him.)  "Will  you 
promise  to  tell  her — them — just  how  you  found  out 
— after  I'm  gone.  I'm  leaving  tomorrow  morning. 
I'd  like  them  to  know  it  was  me  who  spoiled  their 
fun.  Will  you  promise?" 

BALDWIN — "Yes!  Yes!  Anything.  Give  it  to 
me!" 

GENE— "There!  Take  it." 
.  BALDWIN — (*He  reads  the  letter  slowly  and  a 
terrible  expression  comes  over  his  pale,  twitching 
features.  Gene  watches  him  with  a  smile  of  tri 
umph.  When  he  speaks  his  voice  is  ominously  soft 
and  subdued.)  "What  night  was  this  she  speaks 
of?" 

GENE— "The  night  before  last." 

BALDWIN — "She  says  she  would  come  to  him  at 
half-past  eleven.  Did  she  mean  to  the  garage?" 

GENE — "Yes.  When  she  thought  we  were  all 
in  bed  in  the  back  part  of  the  house  she  would  slip 
down  and  go  out  the  front  door.  She  kept  on  the 
grass  and  in  the  shade  of  the  trees  so  no  one  would 


i54  RECKLESSNESS 

notice  her." 

BALDWIN— "You  know  all  this?" 

GENE — "I  followed  her  on  several  different 
nights." 

BALDWIN — "You  must  hate  her." 

GENE— "I  loved  Fred." 

BALDWIN — "Why  was  she  so  careless  as  to  write 
this  note?  Couldn't  she  have  telephoned  or  told 
him?" 

GENE— *"The  little  garage  telephone  was  out  of 
order.  It  was  only  fixed  this  morning.  The  Lynches 
were  here  to  dinner  and  she  had  no  chance  to  speak 
to  him  alone.  She  sent  me  to  the  garage  to  tell 
him  to  come  over.  When  he  came  she  pretended 
to  give  him  some  orders  and  dropped  this  at  his 
feet.  I  suspected  something,  so  I  was  watching 
and  saw  it  all." 

BALDWIN — "How  did  you  get  hold  of  this?" 

GENE — "Yesterday  when  he  went  to  the  village 
to  see  if  the  new  part  for  the  limousine  had  come 
I  went  to  the  garage  and  found  this  in  the  inside 
pocket  of  his  other  clothes." 

BALDWIN — (His  eyes  narrowing.)  "He  is  very 
careless." 

GENE — "Oh,  they  knew  you  wouldn't  be  home 
until  to-day  and  they  felt  safe.  And  I  knew  you 
wouldn't  believe  me  without  proof." 

BALDWIN — "Do  you  think  he  has  missed  this?" 


RECKLESSNESS  155 

GBNB— -"No."  (With  a  sneer.)  "As  you  say 
he  is  very  careless  in  such  matters.  If  he  does  miss 
it  he'll  think  he  has  forgotten  where  he  hid  it." 

BALDWIN — (After  a  pause — putting  the  note  in 
his  pocket.)  "You  may  go.  Be  sure  you  do  leave 
in  the  morning,  otherwise — " 

GENE — "You  needn't  fret.  I  wouldn't  stay  an 
other  day  if  you  paid  me  a  million."  (She  yawns 
heavily.)  "Oh,  I'm  glad  that's  off  my  mind.  I'll 
sleep  tonight.  I  haven't  slept  a  bit,  it  seems,  since 
you've  been  away."  (She  goes  slowly  to  the  hall 
door — then  turns  around  and  looks  at  him  curious 
ly.)  "What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

BALDWIN— "Go!     Go!" 

GENE — (With  a  mocking  laugh.)  "I  wish  you 
luck!"  (She  goes  out.  Baldwin  stares  at  the 
rug  for  a  moment — then  takes  the  note  out  of  his 
pocket  and  reads  it  again.  In  a  burst  of  rage  he 
crumples  it  up  in  his  hand  and  curses  beneath  his 
breath.  His  eyes  wonder  to  his  auto  coat  and  gog 
gles  in  the  chair,  then  to  the  garage  telephone  near 
his  desk.  They  seem  to  suggest  an  idea  to  him — 
a  way  for  his  vengeance.  His  face  lights  up  with 
savage  joy  and  he  mutters  fiercely  to  himself:)  "The 
dirty  cur!  By  God,  I'll  do  it!"  (He  ponders  for 
a  moment  turning  over  his  plan  in  his  mind,  then 
goes  over  and  shuts  the  door  to  the  hall  and  strid 
ing  quickly  to  the  garage  telephone,  takes  off  the 


156  RECKLESSNESS 

receiver.  After  a  pause  he  speaks,  making  his  voice 
sound  as  if  he  were  in  a  state  of  great  anxiety:) 
"Hello!  Fred?  You  haven't  touched  the  car  yet? 
Good !  Take  it  out  immediately !  Go  to  the  village 
and  get  the  doctor — any  doctor.  Mildred — Mrs. 
Baldwin  has  been  taken  very  ill.  Hemorrhage  I 
think — blood  running  from  her  mouth.  She's  un 
conscious — it's  matter  of  life  and  death.  Drive  like 
hell,  do  you  hear?  Drive  like  hell!  Her  life's  in 
your  hands.  Turn  the  car  loose!  Drive  like  hell!" 
(He  hangs  up  the  receiver  and  stands  listening  in 
tently  f  with  one  hand  on  the  desk.  A  minute  later 
the  purr  of  an  engine  is  heard.  It -grows  to  a  roar 
as  the  car  rushes  by  on  the  driveway  near  the 
house — then  gradually  fades  in  the  distance.  Bald 
win's  thick  lipe  are  narrowed  taut  in  a  cruel 
grin.)  "Drive  to  hell,  you  b — rd!" 

(The  stage  is  darkened.  Half  to  three-quarters 
of  an  hour  are  supposed  to  intervene  before  the 
lights  go  up  again.) 

(Baldwin  is  discovered  sitting  in  one  of  the  Mor 
ris-chairs.  He  nervously  pulls  at  the  cigar  he  is 
smoking  and  glances  at  the  telephone  on  his  desk. 
There  is  a  ring  and  he  goes  quickly  over  to  it.  He 
answers  in  a  very  low  voice.)  "Yes.  This  is  Mr. 
Baldwin.  What?  Ran  into  a  boulder  you  say? 
He's  dead  ?"  ( This  last  question  burst  out  exulting- 
ly — then  in  tones  of  mocking  compassion.)  "How 


RECKLESSNESS  157 

horrible!  They're  bringing  it  up  here?  That's 
right.  How  did  you  happen  to  find  him? — Quite 
by  accident  then? — Yes,  come  right  to  the  house. 
It  is  terrible — awful  road — Knew  something  of  the 
kind  would  happen  sometime — ever  so  much  obliged 
for  your  trouble."  (He  hangs  up  receiver  and 
opens  door  into  hallway — then  pushes  the  electric 
bell  button  in  the  wall.  A  moment  later  the  maid 
enters.) 

THE  MAID— "Yes,  sir?" 

BALDWIN— 'Where's  Gene?" 

THE  MAID — "She's  gone  to  bed,  sir.  Shall  I 
call  her?" 

BALDWIN— "No.  You'll  do  just  as  well.  Will 
you  run  up  and  tell  Mrs.  Baldwin  I'd  like  very 
much  to  see  her  for  a  few  minutes.  Tell  her  it's 
something  of  importance  or  else  I  wouldn't  disturb 
her." 

THE  MAID— "Yes,  sir.''  (She  goes  out..  Bald 
win  walks  over  and  fixes  the  two  Morris  chairs  and 
lamp  so  that  the  light  will  fall  on  the  face  of  the 
person  sitting  in  one  while  the  other  will  be  in 
shadow.  He  then  sits  down  in  the  shaded  chair  and 
waits.  A  minute  or  so  elapses  before  Mrs.  Bald 
win  appears  in  the  doorway.  She  walks  over  to  him 
with  an  expression  of  wondering  curiosity  not  un 
mixed  with  fear.  She  wears  a  light  blue  kimona  and 
bedroom  slippers  of  the  same  color.  Her  beautiful 


158  RECKLESSNESS 

hair  hangs  down  her  back  in  a  loose  braid.) 

MRS.  BALDWIN — "I'm  sorry  not  to  have  come 
down  before  but  my  head  aches  wretchedly.  I  sent 
Gene  to  tell  you.  Did  she?" 

BALDWIN — (With  curious  emphasis.)  "Yes. 
She  told  me.  Sit  down,  my  dear."  (He  points 
to  the  other  Morris  chair — She  sits  in  it.) 

MRS.  BALDWIN — (After  a  pause  in  which  she 
waits  for  him  to  begin  and  during  which  he  is  study 
ing  her  closely  from  his  position  of  vantage  in  the 
shadow.)  "I  really  thought  you  had  gone  out  again. 
That  was  one  reason  why  1  didn't  come  down.  I 
heard  the  car  go  out  and  supposed  of  course  it  was 
you." 

BALDWIN — "No.     It  was  Fred." 

MRS.  BALDWIN — "You  sent  him  to  the  village 
for  something?" 

BALDWIN — "No,  I  simply  told  him  there  was 
something  wrong  with  the  steering-gear — something 
I  couldn't  discover.  I  told  him  to  attend  to  it — 
if  he  could — the  first  thing  in  the  morning.  It 
seems  he  has  gone  me  one  better  and  is  trying  to 
locate  the  trouble  tonight."  (With  grim  sarcasm.) 
"Really  his  zeal  in  my  service  is  astounding." 

MRS.  BALDWIN — (Trying  to  conceal  her  anx 
iety.)  "But  isn't  it  very  dangerous  to  go  over  these 
roads  at  night  in  a  car  that  is  practically  disabled  ?" 

BALDWIN — "Fred    is   very   careless — very,    very 


RECKLESSNESS  159 

careless  in  some  things.  I  shall  have  to  teach  him  a 
lesson.  He  is  absolutely  reckless"  (Mrs.  Bald 
win  shudders  in  spite  of  herself)  "especially  with 
other  people's  property.  You  are  worrying  about 
Fred ;  but  I  am  bewailing  my  car  which  he  is  liable 
to  smash  from  pure  over-zealousness.  Chauffeurs 
—even  over-zealous  ones — are  to  be  had  for  the 
asking,  but  cars  like  mine  are  out  of  the  ordinary." 

MRS.  BALDWIN — (Coldly.)  "Why  do  you  talk 
like  that?  You  know  you  do  not  mean,  it." 

BALDWIN — "I  assure  you  I  do — every  word  of 


it." 


MRS.  BALDWIN — "You  said  you  wished  to  see 
me  on  something  of  importance?" 

BALDWIN — (Dryly.)  "Exactly,  my  dear.  We 
are  coming  to  that."  (Then  softly.)  "I  wanted 
to  ask  you,  Mildred,  if  you  are  perfectly  happy  up 
here." 

MRS.  BALDWIN — (A  s  t  o  n  i  s  h  e  d.)  "Why — of 
course — what  makes  you  ask  such  a  question?" 

BALDWIN — "Well  you  know  I  have  left  you  so 
much  alone  this  summer  I  feel  rather  conscience- 
stricken.  You  must  be  bored  to  death  on  this  moun 
tain  with  none  of  your  old  friends  around.  I  was 
thinking  it  might  be  a  good  plan  for  us  to  economize 
a  bit  by  letting  Fred  go  and  getting  along  with 
just  my  car.  It  would  be  quite  possible  then  for 
you  to  go  to  some  more  fashionable  resort  where 


160  RECKLESSNESS 

things  would  be  livelier  for  you." 

MRS.  BALDWIN — (Eagerly.)  "I  assure  you  I 
am  quite  contented  where  I  am.  Of  course  I  miss 
you  and  feel  a  trifle  lonely  at  times,  but  then  I 
have  the  other  car  and  you  know  I  enjoy  motoring 
so  much." 

BALDWIN — "Do  you?  You  never  seemed  to  care 
very  much  about  touring  round  with  me." 

MRS.  BALDWIN — "You  drive  so  dreadfully  fast 
I  am  frightened  to  death." 

BALDWIN — "Fred   is  a  careful  driver  then?" 

MRS.    BALDWIN — "Very   careful." 

BALDWIN — "You  have  no  complaint  to  make 
against  him?" 

MRS.  BALDWIN — "None  at  all.  I  think  he  is  the 
best  chauffeur  we  have  ever  had." 

BALDWIN — "Why,  I  am  delighted  to  hear  that. 
I  had  an  idea  he  was  reckless." 

MRS.  BALDWIN — "He  is  always  very  careful 
when  he  drives  me.  As  for  the  rest  of  the  help, 
they  are  the  average  with  one  exception.  I  think 
I  shall  discharge  Gene."  (Baldwin  smiles.)  "She 
is  getting  so  bold  and  insolent  I  can't  put  up  with 
it  any  longer.  As  soon  as  I  can  get  a  new  maid 
I  shall  let  her  go." 

BALDWIN — "You  may  save  yourself  the  trouble. 
She  is  going  to  leave  tomorrow.  She  gave  me  no 
tice  of  her  departure  when  you  sent  her  downstairs." 


RECKLESSNESS  161 

Mus.  BALDWIN — (Flushing  angrily.)  "It's  just 
like  her  to  act  that  way — another  piece  of  her  inso 
lence.  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  make  the  best  of  it. 
It's  good  riddance  at  all  events." 

BALDWIN — (In  the  same,  soft,  half -mocking 
voice  he  has  used  during  the  whole  conversation 
with  his  wife.)  "Do  you  suppose  Fred  will  stay 
with  us  when  he  finds  out?" 

MRS.  BALDWIN — (Puzzled.)  "Finds  out  what? 
Why  shouldn't  he  stay?" 

BALDWIN — "He  is  Gene's  lover — or  was." 

MRS.  BALDWIN — (Growing  pale — violently.) 
"That  is  a  lie!" 

BALDWIN — (As  if  astonished.)  "Why,  my  dear, 
as  if  it  mattered." 

MRS.  BALDWIN — (Forcing  a  laugh.)  "How 
silly  of  me!  It  is  my  anger  at  Gene  breaking  out. 
But  I  am  sure  you  are  mistaken.  I  know  Gene 
was  very  much  in  love  with  him  but  I  do  not  think 
he  ever  noticed  her." 

BALDWIN — "Now  you  are  mistaken.  He  may 
not  care  for  her  at  present  but  there  was  a  time 
when—" 

MRS.  BALDWIN—  (Biting  her  lips.)  "I  do  not 
believe  it.  That  was  servant's  gossip  you  heard." 

BALDWIN — "It  was  not  what  I  heard,  my  dear 
Mildred,  but  what  I  saw  with  my  own  eyes." 

MRS.   BALDWIN — (In   an  agony   of  jealousy.) 


162  RECKLESSNESS 

"You— saw— them?" 

BALDWIN — (Apparently  oblivious  to  her  agita 
tion.)  "In  a  very  compromising  position  to  say  the 
least."  (Mrs.  Baldwin  winks  back  her  tears  of 
rage.)  "But  that  was  long  ago,"  (Mrs.  Baldwin 
sighs  as  if  relieved.)  "Besides,  what  have  these 
servant  intrigues  to  do  with  us?"  (Mrs.  Baldwin 
tries  to  look  indifferent.)  "I  was  only  joking  about 
Fred  leaving.  In  fact  from  what  Gene  said  Fred 
already  has  some  other  foolish  women  in  love  with 
him.  Only  this  time  it  is  no  maid,  if  you  please, 
but  the  lady  of  the  house  herself  who  has  lost  her 
heart  at  the  sight  of  his  dark  curls.  The  fellow  is 
ambitious." 

MRS.  BALDWIN — (Her  face  terror-stricken — her 
words  faltering  on  her  lips.)  "Do — you — know — 
who — this  woman — is?" 

BALDWIN — (Watching  her  with  grim  amuse 
ment.)  "I  have  one  of  her  letters  here.  Would 
you  care  to  read  it?"  (He  takes  her  note  from 
his  pocket  and  gives  it  to  her.) 

MRS.  BALDWIN — (Taking  it  in  her  trembling 
hand  and  smoothing  it  out.  One  glance  and  her 
face  grows  crimson  with  shame.  She  seems  to 
crumple  up  in  her  chair.  After  a  moment  she 
throws  her  head  back  defiantly  and  looks  up  at 
him— a  pause.)  "Well?" 

BALDWIN — (Dryly,  his  voice  softly  menacing.) 


RECKLESSNESS  163 

"Well?  You  do  not  know  how  to  play  the  game, 
my  sweet  Mildred.  If  ever  guilt  was  stamped  on  a 
face  it  was  on  your's  a  moment  ago." 

MRS.  BALDWIN — (Her  eyes  flashing.)  "Yes.  I 
love  him!  I  acknowledge  it." 

BALDWIN — "You  are  better  at  affirming  than 
denying.  It  takes  courage  to  proclaim  oneself  the 
mistress  of  oneV  chauffeur — to  play  second-fiddle  to 
one's  maid!" 

MRS.  BALDWIN — (In  a  fury.)  "You  lie!  He 
is  a  man  and  not  the  beast  you  are." 

BALDWIN — (Softly.)  "Be  calm!  You  will 
awaken  your  rival  and  she  will  listen  and  gloat!" 

MRS.  BALDWIN — (Lowering  her  voice  to  a  shrill 
whisper.)  "Oh,  it  was  she  who  stole  that  letter?" 

BALDWIN — "Exactly.  You  are  a  novice  at  the 
game,  my  dear.  Take  the  advice  of  a  hardened  old 
sinner — in  the  years  and  loves  to  come  never  write 
any  more  letters.  Kisses  come  and  kisses  go,  but 
letters  remain  forever — and  are  often  brought  into 


court." 


MRS.  BALDWIN — (Relieved  at  the  easy  way  he 
takes  it.)  "I  cannot  help  this.  I  love  him — that's 
all."  (Pause.)  "What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

BALDWIN — "It  was  to  tell  you  that,  I  sent  for 


you." 


MRS.  BALDWIN — "You  will  get  a  divorce?" 
BALDWIN— "No." 


164  RECKLESSNESS 

MRS.  BALDWIN — "You  will  keep  me  tied  to  you 
when  you  know  I  do  not  love  you? — when  you 
know  I  love  someone  else?"  (In  pleading  tones.) 
"You  will  not  be  as  hard  on  me  as  that,  will  you, 
Arthur  ?  This  is  not  all  my  fault.  You  have  never 
really  loved  me.  We  are  not  the  same  age." 
(Baldwin  winces.)  "We  do  not  look  at  things  in 
the  same  light — we  have  nothing  in  common.  It 
would  be  needless  cruelty  to  both  of  us  to  keep  up 
this  farce.  You  will  not  keep  me  tied  to  you  for 
mere  spite,  will  you?" 

BALDWIN — (In  his  kindest  tone.)  "No.  What 
I  intend  to  do  is  to  let  you  get  a  divorce.  I  will 
give  you  all  the  evidence  you  need.  Could  I  be 
fairer  than  that?" 

MRS.  BALDWIN — (Staring  at  him  as  if  she  could 
not  believe  her  ears.)  "You  will  do  that?  (She 
rushes  over  and  kneels  at  his  feet,  kissing  his  hands 
and  sobbing.)  "Oh  thank  you!  Thank  you!" 

BALDWIN — (Looking  down  at  her  bowed  head 
with  a  cruel  smile.)  "There!  There!  It  is  no 
more  than  just.  I  realize  that  youth  must  have  it's 
day.  You  should  have  trusted  me," 

MRS.  BALDWIN — (Her  voice  thrilling  with  grat 
itude.)  "How  could  I  dream  that  you  would  be  so 
kind?  I  did  not  dare  to  hope  that  you  would  ever 
forgive  me — and  he  was  certain  you  would  think 
only  of  revenge.  Oh,  how  unjust  we  have  been  to 


RECKLESSNESS  165 

you!1'  (She  takes  one  of  his  hands  in  hers  and 
kisses  it.) 

BALDWIN — "It  is  true  neither  of  you  have  given 
me  due  credit  for  being  the  man  I  am,  or  you  would 
never  have  acted  as  you  did.  I  have  known  from 
the  first  it  must  have  been  for  money  you  married 
me — "  (With  a  twisted  smile.)  "An  old  man  like 
me.  Tell  me  the  truth.  Wasn't  it?" 

MRS.  BALDWIN — (Falteringly.)  "Yes.  I  would 
not  lie  to  you  now.  My  family  forced  me  into  it. 
You  must  have  realized  that.  I  hardly  knew  you, 
but  they  were  nagging  me  night  and  day  until  I 
gave  in.  It  was  anything  to  get  away  from  home. 
Oh,  I  am  sorry,  so  sorry!  Will  you  forgive  me?" 

BALDWIN — (Evading  her  question.)  "I  have 
done  my  best  to  make  you  happy.  I  have  given  you 
everything  you  desired,  have  I  not?" 

MRS.  BALDWIN — "You  have  been  very  good, 
very  kind  to  me.  I  have  tried  to  love  you  but  there 
has  always  been  a  gulf  separating  us.  I  could  never 
understand  you." 

BALDWIN — "I  have  trusted  you,  have  I  not — al 
ways  and  in  everything?" 

MRS.  BALDWIN — (Slowly.)  "Yes,  but  you  have 
never  loved  me.  I  have  been  just  a  plaything  with 
which  you  amused  yourself — or  so  it  has  always 
seemed  to  me.  Perhaps  I  have  been  unjust  to  you 
— in  that  too." 


166  RECKLESSNESS 

BALDWIN — "If  I  have  regarded  you  as  a  play 
thing  I  was  only  accepting  the  valuation  your  par 
ents  set  upon  you  when  they  sold  you.  But  these 
things  are  over  and  done  and  it  is  useless  to  dis 
cuss  them.  Let  us  talk  of  the  present.  You  love 
Fred?" 

MRS.  BALDWIN— "Yes,  I  do." 

BALDWIN — "I  will  not  stand  in  your  way.  You 
shall  have  him." 

MRS.  BALDWIN—  (Getting  up  and  putting  her 
arms  around  his  neck.)  "Oh  I  do  love  you  now — 
you  are  so  good  to  me."  (She  kisses  him  on  the 
lips.  He  does  not  move  or  touch  her  in  any  way. 
but  looks  at  her  coldly  with  half -closed  eyes,  his 
thick  lips  curled  in  a  sneering  smile.  In  sudden 
fear  Mrs.  Baldwin  moves  away  from  him  with  a 
shudder.  The  noise  of  an  automobile  is  faintly 
heard.  Baldwin  springs  to  his  feet,  his  face  trans 
formed  with  savage  exultation.) 

BALDWIN — (With  a  hard  laugh.)  "Thanks  for 
that  Judas  kiss.  I  hear  a  machine  coming.  It  is 
Fred,  I  know.  We  will  have  him  in  and  relieve 
his  mind  by  telling  him  of  our  agreement."  (The 
machine  is  heard  coming  slowly  up  the  drive  toward 
the  house.) 

MRS.  BALDWIN — (Frightened  by  Baldwin's 
change  of  manner.)  "It  does  not  sound  like  your 
car." 


RECKLESSNESS  167 

BALDWIN — ''It  is  Fred,  I  tell  you.  I  know  it  is 
Fred."  (The  car  stops  before  the  house.  The 
horn  sounds.  Baldwin  hurries  to  the  door  leading 
into  the  hall.  Several  persons  can  be  heard  coming  up 
the  steps  to  the  verandah.  A  door  is  opened  and 
shut  and  the  hushed  murmur  of  voices  comes  from 
the  hallway.) 

BALDWIN — "In  here  if  you  please — in  here!" 
(Mrs.  Baldwin  moves  closer  to  the  door,  her  face 
wan  with  the  terror  of  an  unknown  fear.  Three 
menf  one  a  chauffeur,  the  other  two  servants  of 
some  description,  enter  carrying  the  dead  man. 
Two  are  supporting  the  shoulders  and  one  the  feet. 
A  dark  robe  is  wrapped  around  the  whole  body. 
They  hurriedly  place  it  on  the  divan  to  which  Bald 
win  points  and  go  out  quickly,  glad  to  be  rid  of 
their  gruesome  task.  Mrs.  Baldwin  is  swaying 
weakly  on  her  feet,  her  eyes  wildly  staring  at  the 
figure  on  the  divan.  Suddenly  she  gives  a  frantic 
cry  and  rushing  over  pulls  the  covering  from  the 
dead  man's  head.  The  livid  countenance  of  Fred 
is  revealed.  Several  crimson  streaks  run  down  his 
cheek  from  his  clotted,  curly  hair.  Mrs.  Baldwin 
shrieks  and  falls  senseless  on  the  floor.  Baldwin 
who  has  watched  her  with  the  same  cruel  smile  on 
his  lips  goes  slowly  over  and  pushes  the  button  of 
the  electric  bell.) 

BALDWIN — (When  the  maid  appears.)  "Help  me 


i68  RECKLESSNESS 

to  get  Mrs.  Baldwin  to  her  room."  (He  picks  up 
the  prostrate  woman  tn  his  arms  and  with  the  as 
sistance  of  the  mend,  carries  her  out  to  the  hallway. 
They  can  be  heard  stumbling  up  the  stair  to  the 
floor  above.  A  moment  later  Baldwin  reappears, 
breathing  heavily  from  his  exertion,  his  pale  face 
emotionless  and  cold.  He  stands  looking  down  at 
the  dead  body  on  the  divan — finally  shrugs  his 
shoulders  disdainfully,  comes  over  to  the  table, 
takes  a  cigar  out  of  the  box  and  lights  it.  The 
maid  rushes  in,  all  out  of  breath  and  flustered.) 

THE  MAID — "Please  go  upstairs,  sir.  Mrs. 
Baldwin  has  come  to,  and  she  ordered  me  out  of  the 
room.  I  think  she's  gone  mad,  sir.  She's  pulling 
out  all  the  drawers  looking  for  something"  .  .  . 
(A  dull  report  sounds  from  upstairs.  The  maid  gives 
a  terrified  gasp.  Baldwin  is  startled  for  a  moment 
and  starts  as  if  to  run  out  to  the  hallway.  Then 
his  face  hardens  and  he  speaks  to  the  trembling  maid 
in  even  tones.)  "Mrs.  Baldwin  has  just  shot  her 
self.  You  had  better  phone  for  the  doctor,  Mary." 

CURTAIN 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below, 
or  on  the  date  to  which  renewed.  Renewals  only: 

Tel.  No.  642-3405 . 

Renewals  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  date  due. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


-     ! 


j  k  1 


JAN  2  01975  *  8 


REG.  CIR.    .1M2QT5 


2  3  1977  5  1 


REC.  CIR.JUN  17  '77 


REG,  CIR.AUG  29  '77 


HOV  15*79 


,OCT  1  4 1083 


Lieaeral  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


2  («*"*. 


I 


' 


